


Before You Know It

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Angst, Crying, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, John-centric, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-season/series 04 Fix-it, Self-Loathing, and in a way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 85,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: John hates how his life turned out, and mourns the lost potential between him and Sherlock.So when he's given a second chance, transported back to the night Sherlock returned from the dead, John must make good use of it.





	1. A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in November of 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! I was sitting around and thinking that if Sherlock or John could start things over, they would, and I noticed other stories with this premise had Sherlock going back in time, so I decided to switch it up with John.

It was about a month after everything settled down and Baker Street was back in order that John came to the horrible, but not entirely shocking revelation that he absolutely hated the way his life turned out.

John had just put Rosie in her crib when he walked to his empty bedroom, feet slowly shuffling along the floor, head down, heart heavy, shoulders hunched, mind clouded with misery. He climbed into bed, stared up at ceiling, and it felt like someone violently snatched his heart and squeezed it. His eyes squeezed shut and he let out a soft, but anguished cry. He slapped a hand over his mouth, not wanting to make enough noise to wake Rosie, and began crying into his palm.

Hot tears pooled slipped out of the corners of his eyes, trickling down his temples and into his hair. John’s sobs broke the oppressive silence of the room, of the room he and Mary used to share, and he hated how pathetic and weak he sounded. He turned on his side, curling up and pulling the duvet over his head, as if hiding himself would change reality. His shoulders heaved with each sob that tore from his throat, and each beat of his heart was painful, like a punch to his chest.

This feeling hadn’t come out of nowhere--in fact, it had been building up for quite some time, and he knew it. If he had to sit and really think about it, then he would say he started hating his life after he found out Mary shot Sherlock, but he wasn’t exactly happy before then, either. John didn’t think he had been truly happy since before Sherlock fell.

He felt horrible admitting that, because that meant he had not been happy since long before Rosie was born. Rosie wasn’t the problem, though. He loved her, really, he did. She was his flesh and blood, and a genuinely sweet baby. She had nothing to do with his unhappiness; if anything, she was one of the only things in the world that made him get out of bed in the morning.

The other thing was...

By this point, John realized that he was breathing too harshly, too quickly, and these were the early signs of a panic attack. He gasped sharply, opening his eyes to the darkness under the duvet. He forced himself to get his breathing under control, but the air under the duvet hot and stuffy. He whimpered into his pillow, the fabric of the pillowcase damp from his tears, grateful no one could see him like this. He gulped.

The only other thing that made living slightly bearable was Sherlock, but it was that very situation that made him want to scream and throw things and curse the world.

Everything between him and Sherlock had gone woefully, drastically wrong. They were still friends, he supposed, but their relationship was still strained from Mary’s death (not just her death, but her entire presence in their lives), and John wasn’t sure their relationship was ever going to be the same, and he fucking _hated_ that. It was his fault, too. John was so angry at himself for cheating on Mary and never getting to come clean that he took all of his rage out on Sherlock, and fucking hell, he didn’t deserve that. Then, when Sherlock was practically dying from being high on god-knows what for weeks, John _hit_ him. He really thought Sherlock was going to attack Culverton Smith, and John felt like he needed to snap him out of it, but he was so bloody angry, and once he started hitting him, he couldn’t stop.

John’s breaths were shuddering and he was shaking so badly that he was starting to feel sick in the stomach. He hurt Sherlock because of he couldn’t handle his own issues. Sherlock forgave him, and he honestly had no idea why. A part of him was glad, but another, larger part of John would never forgive himself, and could not act like their friendship was the same as it was a year ago, or even six months ago. He hurt the man who put himself through hell in an effort to save him, and how did John repay him? By doubting his suspicions of Culverton Smith, hurting him, and leaving him alone and vulnerable in that hospital bed. _What’s wrong with me?_ He was a monster.

Sherlock might try to act like everything was fine, because he abhorred emotional confrontation, but John could not. He thought that things would never be fine again. _What the fuck am I doing with my life?_ he asked himself internally. He was 42 years-old, turning 43 next month, and he felt like everything went irreversibly wrong. He was nearly middle-aged, damn it, and he felt like a failure. His marriage was an absolute disaster from start to finish, he was barely married for a year before he was unfaithful, and he screwed things up with his best friend. _More than best friend,_ his mind corrected, and John’s throat felt so tight that he gagged. He took a long, deep breath. Vomiting in bed was not good. He pulled the duvet off his head, hoping cool air would fend off the wave of nausea in his gut and throat.

John breathed out of his mouth, trying to slow down his hammering pulse, but the tears still poured from his eyes.

_Sherlock._

They were supposed to be together, he thought with a small sob. He loved Sherlock so much, more than he could possibly love anyone else (and, to his great shame, he would admit that included Rosie). John didn’t believe in fate or soulmates before Sherlock, but he felt like Sherlock was the missing piece he had been subconsciously searching for his whole life. He remembered the days before Sherlock’s jump, when it was just the two of them in the comfortable domesticity of 221B, solving crimes and bickering about whose turn it was to do the shopping. John’s lips began quivering and he clamped his jaw shut. Those were the best days of his life. If he had known those days wouldn’t last, then he would have savored them more, and wouldn’t have yelled at Sherlock so much for keeping toes in the fridge.

If he had known, then he would have told Sherlock how he felt.

But the chance to tell Sherlock was gone before he knew it, thrown away when Sherlock hit the sidewalk in front of St. Bart’s, and that was what John regretted the most about his life. He missed his chance. He had been so afraid of rejection, so convinced that Sherlock didn’t feel things that way (maybe he really didn’t? John still didn’t know), that he kept it all inside, thinking that maybe, down the road, they could work things out. John thought he had all the time in the world. Even if he never told Sherlock, John thought they would have been able to happily live together for the rest of their days, and although he would have been harboring unrequited feelings, John would have spent his life with Sherlock on strictly platonic grounds in a heartbeat.

The only reason why he even dated Mary in the first place was because he was so bloody lonely after Sherlock died. John didn’t really blame himself for getting together with Mary, because she was the only support in his life during his two years of mourning, and he had no idea that she was a bloody psychopath, but he wished Sherlock came back sooner, before he basically proposed to Mary and couldn’t go back on it.

John wished he would have left Mary after she shot Sherlock.

She did nothing but lie to John about her entire identity since the day they met, then tried to murder the man who offered to help her, and John _took her back._ He started crying into his pillow again. What the fuck had he been thinking? That she would change? That she actually wasn’t that bad? What she did was inexcusable, and after they got back together, she _still_ kept secrets from him, leaving him and her baby daughter to run away. She was selfish, and her bullshit justifications for her actions made her cruel. If she hadn’t died, he was going to divorce her. He knew their relationship couldn’t work out. He wanted so much more than what Mary gave him, and he still did. He wanted it from Sherlock.

John felt trapped. He wasted two years of his life with Mary, and he felt further apart from Sherlock than ever. He sighed shakily. Out of all people, why did he have to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes?

John felt like he messed up every step of the way since the moment Mary shot him, and the knowledge that he couldn’t change a single thing killed him. He wept for all of that lost potential, for the life he and Sherlock could have had together, romantic or otherwise. (But _especially_ romantic. He wanted to love Sherlock openly, but at this point, John felt like he didn’t even _deserve_ him.) Why did everything have to go so horribly wrong?

If he could go back and change it, he would. He wouldn’t take Mary back and spend the rest of his life with Sherlock. He wouldn’t blame Sherlock for things that weren’t his fault, and hurt him, treat him like utter shit. He wouldn’t put the woman who told countless lies above the man who cured his limp in a single evening.

John swallowed thickly, bile threatening to rise up his esophagus. He wished he could go to 221B, take Sherlock into his arms, and never have to move. He wanted to see Sherlock’s eyes light up and glisten with glee when he solved a case, but they didn’t anymore. Sherlock was so quiet now, much more reserved, and John knew it was because of all the shit he had put him through. He thought of the way they laughed when they ran home to 221B for the first time, catching their breath between giggles before Angelo arrived to deliver John his cane. Regret made John’s heart twist painfully.

After crying for half an hour, John felt completely exhausted. He closed his eyes, but dreaded the morning, because he knew that when he would wake up, he would be back in the world where Sherlock, the missing half of his soul, was forever unavailable.

The darkness behind his eyelids consumed his vision, and he wished the blackness could swallow him whole.

* * *

 

The blackness slowly faded when John opened his eyes, distressingly slowly, and when the fog finally cleared, he felt completely disorientated. His head was swimming, and he groaned and rubbed his temples. _What the hell?_ Was he getting sick or something? He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, hoping to clear the fuzzy feeling in his brain, and realized that he wasn’t in his bed. In fact, he wasn’t in his house at all. Blinking rapidly in confusion, John shook his head. This couldn’t be. He was at...a restaurant? Since when? Something about this restaurant looked familiar, too, but his brain felt like it was made of pudding, and he couldn’t remember it at the moment. He placed his hand on the table and opened his eyes again. He was still at the restaurant. How could this be? People didn’t just teleport from their beds to a restaurant, and a high-end one at that.

John’s upper lip itched, and he scratched it, but froze when his index finger met coarse hair.

_What the fuck?_

There wasn’t a mirror, around, but John needed to see his reflection. Something was very wrong. He grabbed a spoon and tried to see his reflection. Although the image was small and blurry, John could make out the shape of a moustache. He dropped the spoon and held his hand over his mouth in shock. He felt the moustache beneath his fingers. He shaved this off years ago! Back when--

“Are you okay?”

John looked up, mouth dropping open, blood running cold.

_Mary._

But she was supposed to be dead! He saw her die. He put his fingers in her bleeding bullet wound. But John immediately recognized her lavender dress, and he knew where he was: The Landmark. He was at The Landmark, and this was the night he was supposed to propose to Mary. Ignoring her question, his hand darted to his trousers pocket, and sure enough, he felt the hard outline of the jewelry box. John let out a shuddering breath, looking down at the table, his breathing turning fast and shallow. _How could this be?!_ This felt so real--how could he be dreaming? Better question: how could he _not_ be dreaming?

“John,” she sat in the chair across from him and touched his forearm.

John flinched away from her touch, and Mary looked hurt and confused. “What is it? What happened?” she asked.

 _What happened?_ He had no fucking idea what happened! He had to be dreaming. He pinched the back of his hand hard, felt pain, but remained exactly where he was. He pinched himself again, but nothing happened. Being able to feel pain meant it was real, right? He had countless dreams before, and bloody nightmares, and he never felt pain in any of them. This had to be real. But it was impossible. Did he finally go insane? Did years of misery finally tear his mind apart? That had to be it. He was probably in a mental hospital somewhere, locked in a padded cell with a straightjacket. He had to be utterly mad.

Mary was looking at him like he was a lunatic, and she might have been absolutely right.

He had to say something. John swallowed, and asked in the calmest voice he could muster, “What year is it?”

Her eyes widened. “What year? John, it’s 2014, November of 2014.”

John put his head in his hands. “Oh my god,” he whispered. Hearing his suspicions confirmed was weird. No, not weird. It was _terrifying._

Mary grabbed his knee. “I’m worried about you! What’s going on? Please tell me.”

John wanted her to stop touching him. Now was not the damn time to dwell over how he felt for Mary, but he still didn’t want her hands on him. It felt like a block of ice was in the pit of his stomach. He suddenly felt the urge to flee. He had to get out of here. He lifted his head from his hands.

Mary’s dark eyes were filled with concern, and John thought of how, at this point, she was lying to him about everything from the major events of her past to her very name. It may have just been a hallucination, or whatever the fuck was going on, but John felt his lips pull down in a scowl.

Mary let go of his knee, pulling her hand to her chest. “John?”

His chest was heaving. He didn’t know what to do. He--he had to be alone. At least for a moment. He looked around wildly and saw the door to the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” he said shakily, standing up and stalking to the door on unsteady legs. He pushed the door with enough force that it hit the wall with a bang, and he practically fled to a stall and locked himself inside. John put his arm against the door and leaned his forehead on his forearm, breathing heavily out of his open mouth. _Don’t panic. Don’t panic._

This felt too real. He could feel the heat from the ventilation system, smelled the foul odors of the bathroom, felt the solid door of the stall, and could feel his heart pounding, knees trembling, skin sweating. Feeling emotions in dreams was normal, but being able to use his senses of smell and touch were not. Being thrown back in time was not normal, either.

John pressed his lips together, and he couldn’t help but wonder: if this were real, was this his second chance? Was he getting his wish to start over? Why tonight, though? Why was he sent back here? It was difficult seeing Mary again, especially when she was lying to his face. Thank _god_ he hadn’t proposed to her yet. Knowing that she was not who she said she was, and that she would almost kill Sherlock, John absolutely could not propose. John stood up straight and his arm fell to his side, a kick of anticipation in his heart. There was something more important happening tonight, and he remembered it vividly.

 _Sherlock._ This was the night Sherlock came back, at least in real life. Was Sherlock going to be here in this version of events, too? But why couldn’t he be sent back _before_ the Fall? He still had no idea what was happening, but he had to go outside and see if Sherlock was there. He didn’t want to mess this up, and somehow, he thought Sherlock’s presence would ground him a little.

John unlocked the stall and exited the restroom, but he stood outside of the door, not wanting to go back to the table with Mary. His eyes darted around the room. _Where are you?_

He was starting to worry that this timeline wouldn’t have Sherlock here, but then, his eye landed on him.

Sherlock was standing about nine feet away, and he was looking around the room, too. Was he looking for John, surprised he wasn’t at his table?

John stood perfectly still, heart beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat, palms sweating profusely. He felt like he was going to take a panic attack. He brought his fist too his lips and bit his knuckle.

Then, Sherlock’s eyes landed on him, and he froze.

John stared back at him. The first time around, this was when John tackled him to the floor and started choking him. Even now, John didn’t feel sorry for that--Sherlock let him grieve, damn it, and he didn’t care at all! John’s knees felt wobbly like pudding. He had no idea how to react to any of this, but Sherlock was standing there, eyes locked on him, in that stupid, piss-poor disguise, looking like he had no idea what to do.

John had to go to him. He walked to him, stumbling once, not thinking about Mary sitting alone at the table for a single moment. Sherlock stood there in the middle of the room, and neither cared about the customers or waitstaff. He stopped in front of Sherlock, biting his lip hard, desperately trying to keep his breathing under control.

Sherlock’s lips parted, but then he closed his mouth and swallowed, eyes cast downward, looking abashed. He looked back up, a small, nervous smile on his lips. “Surprise, John,” he said softly.

John didn’t know what to do. He was somehow _back in time_. Or hallucinating that he was back in time. _Whatever!_ But here Sherlock was, looking so young, before Mary’s bullet nearly killed him, before he nearly killed himself with the drugs, _before John beat him._

John felt his jaw clenching and lip trembling, and there was no way he could stop it. He couldn’t process any of what was going on, but his throat felt tight, and he thought that if Sherlock had never jumped, none of the misery after his return would have ever happened. His head was spinning, his stomach was churning, and his hands were shaking by his side. Instead, the weight and trauma of the two years after Sherlock’s return was shattering John’s heart.

“John?” Sherlock asked, all attempts at nervous humor gone and replaced with worry. “John, are you ill? Are you going to faint?”

Fuck, he didn’t know. Maybe. John opened his mouth to speak. The first time this happened, he was furious, but now, John was just _sad_. He spent so much time being angry over this, but always, no matter the situation, his anger was merely a shield for his sorrow. The anger was gone. Now, he felt like he could cry. He didn’t know if any of this was actually happening, but he wanted to voice what he wanted to say this first time. “You left me,” John said, voice trembling. “You left me for two years. How-- _how_ could you do that?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “John...I know you’re very angry with me, but let me say one thing, one thing.” He paused. “Are you really going to keep that?” Sherlock gestured to his own penciled moustache with a fake smile and weak laugh.

Something about reliving this made John feel like someone was crushing his heart. “Why is this just a joke to you?” he asked seriously.

Sherlock’s face fell, and he blinked dumbly.

John licked his lips, cursing internally when he felt the corners of his eyes start to sting. “Do you really have nothing to say?” His throat was too tight, and his voice was beginning to crack. Sherlock was staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, and John recognized that look. Sherlock wore the same expression when Mary died and John looked up at him with fury, accusing him of not keeping his vow. John choked out a cut off sob that startled them both and drew the attention of people from the nearby tables, but John pressed on, “Do you have any idea what I went through?” But the question hurt, because he wasn’t talking about the two years of mourning from the Fall, but Sherlock had no way of knowing that. He didn’t know of what their lives would turn into after this, and it was too much for John.

“John?” someone touched his shoulder.

It was Mary.

He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, walking past them, ignoring Sherlock and Mary calling his name. He practically fled from the restaurant, and realized that Sherlock and Mary were probably going to try to find him, so, feeling absolutely mad, he ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his feet hurt from being in dress shoes, and he stopped by a bus stop with a bench, panting. He collapsed onto the bench, elbows on his knees and face in his hands, holding back bitter tears.

He got his wish, didn’t he? Weren’t wishes supposed to feel happy? Why was he running away? Why was he fucking this up _again?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo what do you think? I have an idea where this story is going to go, but as always, feedback is invaluable to me :)


	2. On the Bench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality begins crashing down on John, and Sherlock finds him sobbing on a bench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you guys so much for all the kudos! I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter, because I find myself really enjoying writing this.  
> And don't worry, John will get there and be with Sherlock, but I didn't think it would be realistic for him to go back in time and jump into Sherlock's arms, so it'll be a process. I actually have this story somewhat planned out, which is rare for me lol

The biting wind of the November night made him shiver, and John realized he must have left his coat back at the restaurant. He felt ridiculous, sitting on a bench in a suit with tears in his eyes. He kept his face in his hands, his breath quivering out of his mouth. How was he supposed to react to this? What was he supposed to do? Was this seriously real? If this were real, was he here for life?

_Rosie!_

“Oh god,” he whispered in horror. Rosie _didn’t exist_ . He lifted his head and put his hands over his mouth, muffling his gasps. Was he starting to hyperventilate? He couldn’t tell. All he could think of was the fact that his Rosie, his little baby, was never even conceived in this universe. A small sob escaped when it dawned on him. Mary’s pregnancy came as a surprise in the other universe. He didn’t even know when Rosie was conceived, but even if he knew the exact second it happened, there was absolutely no guarantee that the sperm that resulted in Rosie would impregnate Mary again. In fact, it was incredibly unlikely. _There was no way to bring her back._ Even if Mary were to get pregnant again, it would be with a different baby.

She was gone.

John was openly sobbing into his hands on a city bench. He had no idea if people were passing or if the sidewalks were empty. “What have I done?” he asked himself miserably. He didn’t think he would actually get his wish, so of course he didn’t think it through. He didn’t think he would lose his child. He felt like he barely got to spend any time with her. Rosie was barely over a year old in the other universe, and because of his stupid, selfish self, he hadn’t even been with her the entire time. He felt like he barely knew her. Even so, he grew attached to her. He loved her. But now, John was essentially crying over a person who never existed, and could never come to exist.

John felt a nearby presence, so he lifted his tear-stained face.

Sherlock was standing there, holding John’s coat. His disguise of glasses and a penciled-on mustache were gone. His jaw was clenched and his lips were pressed together tightly. He clearly didn’t know what to do, and his eyes were suspiciously shiny.

John really didn’t care that his face was soaked with tears, too overwhelmed to be embarrassed, but he didn’t know what to say.

They stared at each other, the only sound between them being John’s ragged breathing. A couple walked by and looked at them strangely, but they didn’t notice.

Sherlock swallowed, looking even more of uncertain of himself than back at the restaurant. “You left this,” he held out John’s coat. His voice was rough. “You left in a hurry. I figured you’d want it.”

John blinked, causing more tears to fall. He took the coat. He couldn’t speak to thank Sherlock. His throat felt so tight that it hurt. He put the coat on in silence, taking deep breaths. What _could_ he say? He couldn’t tell Sherlock that he was crying over his daughter who didn’t exist. He couldn’t have exactly seemed mentally well, running out of a restaurant and sobbing in public, and telling him, or anyone, about Rosie would have probably landed him in a mental hospital.

Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets. He opened his mouth with a small intake of breath. “I’m...I’m very sorry, John,” he said softly, slowly. “I didn’t know you would get so upset.”

Of course, Sherlock’s return from the dead wasn’t the reason for his tears, but John heard himself say bitterly, “You didn’t _know_.” But, no, he really hadn’t known, had he? John remembered when he asked Sherlock to be his best man, and Sherlock’s utter shock upon being told he was John’s best friend. If Sherlock didn’t think he was John’s best friend when he fell, then maybe he really thought John would have been relatively okay with this. How did he not know he was John’s best friend? He thought of Sherlock from his timeline, putting himself through hell, all for him. He didn’t know how Sherlock could have such a devoted heart and be so insensitive at the same time.

It was times like this when John felt that he really didn’t know Sherlock at all.

“Why would I have been okay with this?” John asked. “How could’ve I not gotten upset? You’re my best friend and I thought you were gone forever,” he said bluntly.

There it was: the blinking. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, and he got that strange look on his face, the same one he had when John asked him to be his best man. If John weren’t so distraught, he would have smiled.

Then, the shocked look went away, and Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed and he quickly turned his face away, looking out into the street. “Oh,” was all he said.

Was he upset? John sighed, running his hand through his hair. He looked down at the ground, shaking his head. “You left me,” he said quietly.

Sherlock was silent beside him.

“You made me think your skull cracked on the pavement. How could you think I cared so little about you?” he asked. John felt like he could ask all the questions that had been on his mind for years. He didn’t care if they normally stayed far away from deep conversations. He still wasn’t 100% sure this was real. Fuck everything. He looked back at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked stricken. “I…” he trailed off. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. Sometimes, when Sherlock allowed his walls to go down, the depth of emotion on his face was frighteningly raw. Sherlock only looked at him helplessly.

John felt his shoulders sag. He couldn’t really feel angry with him. John looked at the ground and patted the empty space on the bench. John felt lifeless and was in no hurry to get up from the bench. Sherlock might as well sit with him.

Sherlock stiffened, surprised, but he walked over and sat down next to John, sitting up straight, his hands clasped together tightly.

John wiped the last of his tears on his sleeve. He felt awful, for every single reason. While it was true that Sherlock’s return was much less painful the second time around, it did not fail to make his heart clench. It had been years in his timeline, and it still got to him. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be over this,” John admitted quietly.

The remark seemed to be a slap in the face, because Sherlock looked horribly pained. “I’m sorry. I had to. There was no other choice, John.”

He knew that. But, he wasn’t supposed to know what Sherlock meant yet. John couldn’t act like he already knew about Sherlock’s reasons behind doing it (although, really, Sherlock never really told him that much because Mary had been there, and John was angry, and the conversation never really came up again. The only thing he found out afterwards was about the snipers). “Why did you do it?” John asked. “I don’t want to know how you pulled it off, Sherlock. That doesn’t matter to me. I want to know why.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, that’s fair.” His eyes flickered downward. “There were three snipers: one on Lestrade, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on you.”

John knew that much, but he feigned surprise. He wasn’t sure how good of an actor he was, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, so he figured he was good.

“I had to, John,” he said firmly. “I could not-- _would_ not--let Moriarty kill any of you.”

Although it was not new information, hearing it out loud did fill John with the tiniest bit of warmth. “But why didn’t you let me in on your plan at any point? Did you not trust me that much?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to his. “It wasn’t that.”

“Then what was it?” He remembered Sherlock telling him that he feared John would have blown his cover. That had hurt.

Then, Sherlock looked away again, lips pursing. “All right, so perhaps I wanted to ensure there was no way anyone could discover I was alive--”

“You should have let me in,” John interrupted. He wasn’t angry. He was just so damn tired. “We could’ve been a team. Nothing would have made me slip up, Sherlock, not even torture,” he said truthfully.

Sherlock seemed to flinch at the mention of torture and he looked ahead into the street. “I would have never let it come to that,” he said stiffly.

John was curious about his reaction. Sherlock was never squeamish at the mention of torture before. Was he? “I went through a lot of Afghanistan,” John reminded him. “I would’ve gladly--”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock said forcefully, looking at John with fire in his eyes.

John’s lips snapped shut. _What the hell is that about?_

But then Sherlock, master of diversion, said, “Mary’s looking for you.”

He had forgotten about her. _I don’t really care._ But he knew by now that when Sherlock didn’t want to talk about something, there was no use in trying. Later, he would bring it up. “Is she?”

“Yes. We split up to look for you. I found you first.”

John hoped she didn’t find them. “I see.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry for interrupting your proposal plan,” he said stiffly.

“How do you know I was going to propose?”

A small quirk of his lips. “I can see the outline of the jewelry box in your pocket--not much of a deduction.”

John took the box out of his pocket, frowning at it. Knowing about who Mary really was left him no desire to put a ring on her finger. “Hm. Yeah, well, I’m not going through with it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened “Why not?” he asked insistently.

John raised his eyebrows. “Why do you care?” It was a genuine question.

Sherlock shrugged, surprised expression turning cool. “It’s merely unusual to buy a ring and not go through with it. If you didn’t want to propose to her, you wouldn’t have booked a dinner with the ring in your pocket.”

True. “I think I was just rushing into it,” John said. “I don’t…” Wait, if Sherlock said that Mary was looking for him, then they must have talked already. If Mary had a secret past, how did Sherlock never see it? That was always something which really bothered John. “Did she seem off to you in any way?”

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow curiously. “‘Off’?”

“Yeah. Um.” _Do you think she’s secretly an assassin?_ That would not be a normal question to ask. “I think she’s lying to me about something,” he said vaguely. “There are certain things--I don’t know,” he fiddled with the box in his hands. “I think she’s keeping something from me.”

Sherlock sighed a little, as if he didn’t want to say this. “Well, I did detect that she’s a liar. What she’s lying about, I don’t know.”

It felt like a punch to the gut. Sherlock _did_ know about Mary, or at least suspect something was wrong. Why did he never tell John, in the other world? “Were you ever planning on telling me?”

Sherlock was confused. “What?”

John’s hands tightened around the box. “Were you just going to let me marry an--a liar?”

Sherlock looked even more confused. “I...She seems nice, I don’t even know what she’s lying about, and I thought you were going to propose to her, so I thought you cared for her.”

John deflated. So, Sherlock thought Mary would make him happy?

Sherlock sniffed, looking down at his feet. “Besides, she may be a liar, but look at me,” he smiled ruefully. “I lied to you for two years, didn’t I?”

It almost surprised John that he immediately wanted to rush to his defense. “No, you--you had to do it. I know that now.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not happy about it, and to be honest, I still don’t know how I feel about you,” (understatement of the century), “but it’s different, Sherlock.” Mary lying about her entire past and identity was absolutely different from Sherlock lying about this.

Sherlock looked up at him from under his lashes. “Is it?” He looked down again, shame on his features. “Did she ever make you run away and break down on a city bench?” he asked quietly.

John felt his face flush. God, he really was a mess earlier, wasn’t he? He would have been more ashamed about it, if he hadn’t already cried in Sherlock’s arms in his timeline. Upon recalling that memory, he felt the sudden urge to hug Sherlock, but held it back. He didn’t know how this Sherlock would react. But, the thing that stuck out to John was how genuinely guilty Sherlock seemed over everything, especially upsetting him, and it wasn’t totally fair, because John was crying over _everything_ , including a baby who did not exist.

“Can we not talk about that?” He didn’t like dwelling on his moments of weakness, and he couldn’t even tell Sherlock all of the reasons why he was crying.

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered into his coat lapels.

John sat back, sighing, looking at the stupid box in his hands. “I don’t want to propose to her,” he said. “Can you not mention to her that I ever had this ring?”

“My lips are sealed,” Sherlock said.

John put the box back in his pocket. He would have to get rid of it later. He looked at Sherlock, and had no idea what to say to him. Sherlock was still sitting as straight as a ramrod. “You can at least relax a little and be less awkward,” John muttered.

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eyes and nodded. He slowly leaned so his back was resting against the bench.

That...was weird. John realized he still had no idea what to say, but remembered that he had to act like he was seeing Sherlock again for the first time in years, and didn’t know the majority of what Sherlock had told him in the other timeline. “So, your brother knew?” he asked.

Sherlock tensed. “Yes. And Molly.”

That still hurt, but John swallowed and let it pass. “That’s why they weren’t at the funeral.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed briefly. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I don’t know how many times I could say it.”

John just stared at him, and shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t get it, Sherlock. Did you really think you’d be able to do this without consequences?”

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. For someone who loved to get the last word in, at times, Sherlock could be deafeningly silent.

But John was tired of their aborted conversations. “Talk to me, Sherlock. You should at least tell me what the fuck was going on in your head. You did it to protect us--yeah, I get it, and for some reason, you didn’t want me with you--”

“I told you,” Sherlock cut in sternly, the fire back in his eyes, “I did not want you in any form of danger.”

“But what did you think would happen when you came back?” Some of the old anger was starting to rear its ugly head. “Did you think I’d just be sitting at Baker Street, staring at your empty chair because apparently I have no fucking life of my own?”

A spark of anger ignited in Sherlock, too. “I didn’t say that, John. Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said sharply.

“Did you not consider how I would feel _once_?” John raised his voice.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think I intended to upset you? I did what had to be done, John--”

“You _left me_ ,” John said through clenched teeth, and he shut his eyes tightly. This wasn’t working. They weren’t supposed to argue again! He was supposed to make things better.

“Did you think I actually wanted to?” Sherlock yelled.

John opened his eyes, and saw Sherlock’s teeth bared. He was fuming.

Sherlock’s voice lowered to a deep, dangerous rumble, and he leaned closer. “Listen to me, John Watson, out of all the thirteen possible scenarios, the one I chose was the safest option for you. I do not regret keeping you safe, but do you honestly believe I ever wanted this? Do you think I wanted to give in to Moriarty? Did you think I wanted to leave the _only_ friend I ever had?”

A ball of shame dropped into John’s stomach, and he couldn’t look at Sherlock. He looked down at his hands. What a royal fuck-up he was. He was being selfish. When John swallowed, his throat was tight. He felt his eyes water. _For Christ’s sake, man up!_ he scolded himself. He was like a fucking waterfall of tears.

Then, he felt Sherlock grasp his forearm, and he looked up.

The last traces of anger were leaving Sherlock’s face, and a nearby streetlight made his eyes light in the night. His lips parted, and he had took a moment to gather the courage to speak. “I may not be a good man, John, but do you really believe I would knowingly hurt you so badly? I’m sorry I didn’t know, but that’s just it: I _didn’t_ know,” he said sincerely, frowning deeply.

John felt horrible. “Sherlock--”

“Goodness, there you are!”

Sherlock removed his hand and John whipped around and almost snarled. Did Mary have to ruin everything?!

“I was getting worried,” Mary cooed, pouting, patronizing, pulling her fur coat more tightly around herself.

“I’m fine,” John lied. He felt shaken by his conversation with Sherlock, and was in no mood to talk to her.

“Are you?” she asked skeptically.

His lip twitched.

“Well, what do you want to do, John?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

Mary laughed. “I mean, are you going to stay on the bench all night?”

She laughed. She _laughed_ . She found humor in this situation. He remembered the first time Sherlock came back from the dead, and how Mary was instantly on his side instead of John’s. _I like him,_ she smiled when they got in the cab while John was hurting and furious. The second time around, she was just as unsupportive. John shouldn’t have been shocked, but he was.

John wanted...he wanted to go home, actually. He wanted to curl up in bed and try to process everything. But, wait. Wait. _He was living with Mary._ No. He did not want to share a bed with her.

But where else could he go, with Sherlock? Did Sherlock even want him?

“I...don’t think I’m ready to go home yet,” John said to her. “I need time to think. I need to walk around a bit, I think, to clear my head.”

Sherlock and Mary were looking at him skeptically.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Mary said reluctantly. “Don’t stay out too late.”

 _I can do whatever the bloody hell I want._ “Okay. Go home.” That was too harsh. “Be safe,” he added.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she smiled and rolled her eyes.

 _Yeah, because you’re a bloody assassin, apparently._ “All right. Just--I’ll be home later, okay?”

“Okay,” she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

John tried not to scowl at her.

She smiled at Sherlock. “Well, I wasn’t expecting to meet you tonight, but I think I’m rather glad I did.”

 _Look at her. Acting friendly,_ John’s inner voice growled, if such a thing were possible.

Sherlock smiled, and it seemed genuine. “Likewise.”

Why did he fall for Mary’s tricks so easily? Why was he willing to save and protect her when Ajay wanted to kill her? Why did they talk and laugh after she shot him like everything was normal?

“Yeah, I’m gonna go walk,” John stood up. He couldn’t take it anymore. “See you both later.”

He felt their confused eyes burning the back of his skull as he walked away.

John didn’t know how long he walked around London, thinking about nothing and everything, his eyes blind to what was in front of him, but filled with visions of the other timeline, but his legs were tired and his face was numb from the cold. The sky was pitch black, no stars, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. John pulled out his phone (which was on low-battery) and saw that it was nearly three in the morning. _Ah._ He put the phone back in his pocket and decided to see where he was.

John looked up and sighed in exasperation.

He was in front of Sherlock’s flat. Of course he bloody was.

John sighed again, cursing himself, and went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he can't stay away from Baker Street :P  
> I hope you guys liked this! And in case you haven't noticed, I've hinted at the scars on Sherlock's back, but that has been done to death in fanfic, so I'm going to do a slightly different take on it so it'll be fresh. So if you like that johnlock fanfic trope, expect it with a bit of a difference ;)  
> (By the way, if you're one of my regular readers and are waiting on chapter 14 of "Proof of Sentiment", I swear I haven't forgotten about it or abandoned it. I just...need to think of what to do lol.)  
> 


	3. Night at Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to get back to a comfortable place with Sherlock, but discovers exactly what Sherlock had been through during his time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey thanks for all the kudos! I'm so happy you guys like this story so far, because I really like writing it!

John nearly cursed when he found the door to the flat locked, but he remembered that since Sherlock’s jump, he still kept the key to the flat with his other keys on a ring, so he unlocked the door. When he entered the sitting room, it was dark, with the only light coming from the lamp by the window. The flat was completely silent, but John got the strange feeling he was being watched. It was a little difficult to see, but his eyes scanned the room in front of him, and he was certain he saw no one. Still, he felt like something was creeping up on him. The instincts he developed in the military told him he wasn’t alone. He turned around, but the rest of the flat was pitch black. It must have been Sherlock, but why was he being...weird?

“Sherlock?” he called out.

“John?” his confused voice came from somewhere in the dark. 

Then, the overhead lights to the sitting room switched on, and John saw Sherlock. He was standing by the switch next to the entry to the kitchen, in pajama pants and his red dressing gown, shirtless. John would have stared at his chest if he weren’t staring at the revolver in Sherlock’s hand.

“Jesus, what are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock looked sheepishly at the gun. “I didn’t know it was you and thought it might have been an intruder.”

This was odd to John. When he lived with Sherlock, he had a rather  blasé attitude toward safety. If there were a bang or crash coming from somewhere in the building, Sherlock would never think much of it. Brandishing a gun was new.

“No, it’s just me,” John said uncomfortably.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I see.” He looked like he didn’t know what to do with the gun, and he walked into the kitchen and placed it on the counter.

John rolled his eyes. Well, it looked like Sherlock wasn’t entirely Mr. Safety.

Sherlock walked back into the room, and he looked puzzled. “John, don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”

Shit. He ducked his head with a shrug. “I dunno. I just started walking and found myself here.”

“Were you out in the cold all that time?” Sherlock asked, concern coming into his voice.

He didn’t know how long he stayed outside, but come to think of it, he was actually bloody freezing. It amazed him how much he could ignore his body’s needs when his mind was somewhere else entirely.  _ Kind of like Sherlock,  _ he thought. “Yeah,” John said casually.

Sherlock fiddled with the belt of his dressing gown, still uncertain from earlier in the evening. “Would you like me to start a fire?”

John’s ice-cold hands compelled him to say, “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said, and went over to the fireplace.

John watched him, not sure what to say, but then he noticed that it looked like the dressing gown was sticking to Sherlock’s back in some places. It wasn’t loose like the rest of the gown. Was it just a trick of the light?

“There we are,” Sherlock said when the logs began to burn. He bit his lip. “Sit. If you want.”

John sat in his chair, jacket still on, and sighed in relief when he felt the heat of the fire. But here he was, three in the morning, in Sherlock’s home, showing up completely unannounced. He couldn’t just sit there. He had to make an effort at conversation.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, once again strangely careful with his movements, like he was on the bench a few hours ago. 

Sherlock tied the belt around himself, closing the dressing gown and concealing his chest. “I know it’s foolish to ask if you’re okay, but are you okay?”

_ Not at fucking all.  _ John shrugged. “As okay as I can be,” he said, which he supposed was the truth.

Sherlock nodded, and they fell back into silence.

This wasn’t working. “Did I wake you?” John asked. “It’s late, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I was awake already.”

John remembered the first time around, how he spent all night staring up at the ceiling with Mary by his side. Had Sherlock done the same thing in his own bed? Sherlock must have been lonely that night, after being completely rejected by John. John still didn’t think he was wrong the first time this happened, but seeing things from Sherlock’s point of view hurt.

“Does Mary know where you are?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John had to stop forgetting she existed. “What? No, no, I haven’t talked to her.”

Sherlock turned to look at the fire. “Perhaps you should text her. She’s probably worried about you.”

Why was he interested in Mary? “Yeah, well, she can wait.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to look at him for a second, but went back to the fire.

He was nervous. John didn’t want him to feel nervous in his own home. “I’m sorry, should I leave?”

That got his full attention. “What? No,” Sherlock said. Then, his eyes went back to the fire. “If you don’t want to leave, I mean, then stay. Why would you leave?”

“I’m not bothering you?”

Sherlock looked at him with a softness that made John ache. “No, John, of course not. I’m...happy you’re here. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me for at least three days.”

John smirked a little. “Why three?”

“It was based on my calculations.”

“Your calculations of my temper?”

“Yes.”

John snorted. He loved those little ways about Sherlock, how precise and, frankly, ridiculous he was. “Well, I’m here.” John swallowed. He was supposed to make things right. He had to be braver than he was in the first timeline. He had to at least take the first step towards them becoming...well, he still didn’t know if Sherlock truly felt anything for him, but he wanted them to end up closer than they were in the other timeline. John’s hand gripped the end of the armrest for support, feeling a little anxious about saying something so simple. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

Sherlock pursed his lips and his eyes suddenly grew sad. He breathed in deeply, looking like he was collecting himself. “You only saw me a few hours ago.” he tried to joke.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” John said tiredly, but with no venom. But, Sherlock didn’t know what he actually meant. John didn’t miss Sherlock from the Fall anymore. In his timeline, he could see Sherlock every day, but it felt like there was an entire universe between them which could never be crossed. He really,  _ really  _ missed Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at the ground. “I know. I...for what it’s worth, I missed you, too, John.”

“It’s worth a lot,” John told him, voice coming out thicker than he anticipated.

Sherlock’s eyes cautiously met his. “John, did you believe I never thought of you?”

There was a time when John’s own broken heart would have said  _ yes,  _ but he knew better now. “It’s just nice to hear you say it.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “I missed you a great deal.”

John seriously didn’t want to start crying again after his episode on the bench. He nodded and looked at the fire, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“Are you warmer?” Sherlock asked tactfully.

“Much, thank you.”

“You can take off your jacket.”

John did, and he put the jacket over the chair. He realized he was still in his stupid suit from the restaurant, and remembered he still had his mustache. He needed to shave that when he got the chance. “You don’t like my mustache, do you?” he asked, figuring he could go for a topic more lighthearted. “I can tell.”

Sherlock immediately said, “It’s terrible. It makes you look ancient.”

John laughed in a way he couldn’t years ago. “Thanks, Sherlock. Thanks for that.”

Sherlock was tentatively grinning. “Anytime. Mary doesn’t like it, either.”

He was annoyed. “Well, I don’t really care what she thinks, considering I’m breaking up with her.” It was out of his mouth without a conscious thought, but it was true. He wasn’t going to stay with Mary now. He didn’t owe her anything anymore.

“You are?” he raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “Well, I decided I don’t want to marry her. I don’t really see the point of staying with her.” He paused. “Why do you care?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shrug. “She was the only one of your girlfriends I met who actually seemed clever and interesting.”

John hated how easily and quickly she deceived him. But he couldn’t tell him she was an assassin. He had no proof. “She’s just not for me. Not the one, you know?”

For some reason, Sherlock got that immediately. “Ah, yes.”

John remembered when Sherlock told Lestrade that his date wasn’t  _ the one.  _ Sherlock must have believe in the concept of  _ the one,  _ then, but John always thought that would have been too sentimental for him. “Anyway, that’s part of the reason why I’m here. I didn’t want to go home to her. Too stressed.” And she never helped him when he was stressed.

“Well, you’re welcome here,” Sherlock said with a touch of awkwardness.

John found himself desperate to touch him. But what could he do that wouldn’t be considered out of character? He remembered how Sherlock hugged him when he was upset, and god, he wanted to do that again. Sherlock was under the assumption John thought he was dead for two years up until a few hours ago. A hug would be appropriate in this situation, wouldn’t it? He had to work up to it.  _ Can’t believe I’m revving myself up for a bleeding hug.  _ He was pathetically addicted to Sherlock’s touch.

“Thanks. I...like I said. I did miss you. The only reason I left this flat was because it was all too much.”

“‘Too much’?” Sherlock asked.

Since this was true, it was legitimately difficult for John to say. He cleared his throat. “Well. Sitting here and looking at an empty chair.”

Sherlock’s face shattered. “ _ John _ .”

God, he seriously did not know how upset John was at the time.

“Can I confess something?” Sherlock asked.

“Erm, yeah, sure.”

His eyes were bright blue, and he suddenly looked young. “There were times--I did think about you, but sometimes that was too much. I had to stop myself, because..” He swallowed. “You know I hate repeating myself, but I will. I missed you.”

John would never know how Sherlock could make him so happy in one second, and completely fucking heartbroken in another. “ _ Fuck _ , Sherlock.” Nothing could stop John from touching him now. “Look, I know we don’t do this, but I don’t give a toss. You just came back from the dead. Can I--hug you?”

Sherlock’s cheeks bloomed with the most beautiful shade of pink. “Oh. Yes,” he said, voice smooth and soft.

John loved him. He stood up, grabbed Sherlock by one of his hands, pulling him from his chair, and hugged him.

But it was not the beautiful moment John thought it would be, as his arms went around his back, Sherlock abruptly stiffened. John hugged Sherlock unexpectedly before at his wedding, and he hadn’t felt like this. It felt like Sherlock was in  _ pain _ .

John let go of him quickly. “Sherlock, what? Did I hurt you?”

Sherlock was poorly concealing a pained look on his face. “No.”

“Yes, I did.” His back. It was something on his back. That’s why he was acting weird. “What’s on your back?”

The beautiful blush drained frighteningly quickly. “Nothing.”

John was tired of lies. “Sherlock,” he said lowly, “show me, or I’ll rip off your gown and see for myself.”

Sherlock stared down at him, eyes filled with worry. “Please. No.”

Why couldn’t Sherlock stop lying to him?! “You asked for it.” John tugged at the belt of the gown and Sherlock pushed his hands away.

“Fine!” Sherlock snapped. He sighed in defeat, but his eyes were angry. “Fine. I forgot how stubborn you could be.”

He pulled off his dressing gown, but there was some resistance at his back, like the fabric had been sticking to something. John saw Sherlock wince at that, and John’s heart started galloping. Sherlock bit his lip and stifled a grunt of pain as he got all of the dressing gown off his body, and without a word, he turned around.

John suddenly wanted to wake up from this universe. 

Blood. There was fresh blood on his back. The dressing gown must have been clinging to open cuts, and taking it off must have opened up some of them up again and made them bleed. There were deep, long wounds on his back, and they looked downright nasty. They were deep, angry, and didn’t look like they were being taken care of very well. A small trail of blood started to trickle from of the lashes in the middle of Sherlock’s back, and John realized his knees were trembling. John’s own skin stung just looking at this. He needed to do something. He needed to help. He needed to  _ scream _ .

“What the fuck is this!?” he shouted.

Sherlock’s back moved up and down with a sigh. He said nothing.

He wanted to ask Sherlock everything, but needed to help him first. “Stay right there!” he ordered. He rushed to the kitchen and dampened several paper towels with the sink. “Sit,” he told Sherlock from the kitchen. “Sit on the sofa. Turn sideways so I can treat you.” It was difficult to be in doctor mode when he felt like he was going to vomit into the sink. When he returned to the sitting room with the towels, Sherlock had done what he was told. He was looking down at the sofa cushion blankly. 

John went over and sat behind Sherlock, turning to his back. His hands were shaking. “I need to clean these. Have you taken care of them at all?”

“They’re hard to reach,” Sherlock mumbled.

Horror was in the pit of his stomach. The Sherlock in the other timeline...He had no one to do this for him. Did his wounds get infected? Did they scar? John  _ never knew.  _ The sight of the blood was making him sick. He was an army doctor, for fuck’s sake, and had seen far worse injuries, but none made him want to curse the universe as these cuts did. The only time Sherlock looked worse was when he was dying of whatever the hell he was taking during the whole Culverton affair, but this was a close second, and seeing Sherlock actively bleeding was different.

Tears were spilling from his eyes, and he was glad Sherlock couldn’t see. “This will probably sting,” he whispered. He got one of the damp towels and wiped the small trickle of blood that was going down his lower back, and gently, slowly moved up to the cut responsible. Sherlock tensed beneath his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, a tear falling onto the sofa. “You don’t want them to get infected, Sherlock. I have to do this. Do you have gauze?”

“I think there’s some in the medicine cabinet in the loo,” he said. His voice was strained. “I did try to do this myself, but got frustrated and gave up.”

John moved to another wound and Sherlock hissed. “Easy,” John whispered shakily. “Easy.” It was hard to concentrate on the present. His Sherlock must have gone through the same thing. These wounds were extremely recent. Sherlock must have left wherever the fuck he was and ran right back to John. Where the hell was he when this happened, anyway?

“Who did this to you?” John asked darkly.

“Someone who’s not in this country and not important,” Sherlock said, monotone.

“So he got away with it?” John asked tightly.

“And I got away,” Sherlock said. “That’s what matters.”

That did matter, but John wanted to hurt the man who did this to Sherlock. “But--”

“What are you going to do, John? Hop on a plane to Serbia and find the man and punch him in the face?”

John’s hand stopped. Well, that made him feel foolish. He didn’t want to go to his knee-jerk angry response, though. Being impulsive caused problems between him and Sherlock, and Sherlock was hurt in front of him. He wasn’t well. “I would, you know,” he said, going back to carefully wiping the open wounds. “If I could hurt who did this to you, I would.”

Sherlock looked at him from over his shoulder, but then looked away. He didn’t say anything.

John’s heart was heavy as stone as he continued his work. He foolishly wished that he could wipe his hands over the wounds and they would magically close up and heal. He remembered when Sherlock waltzed around the flat in a sheet before he jumped, and how smooth the skin on his back was. Now that John was taking care of the wounds, he hoped they wouldn’t scar, because they were certainly deep enough to leave a mark. Sherlock did so much for him, and he just said a few minutes ago that he thought of John while he was away. Did he think of John while being injured? John didn’t want to ask. He felt like things were too raw right now. 

John remembered how touchy Sherlock got at the mention of torture earlier in the evening, and how he was frightened enough to grab a gun when he thought a stranger was in his flat. Now John knew why he acted that way, but he also knew that the emotional pain Sherlock felt wouldn’t be temporary. John had been through his fair share of traumatic events in Afghanistan, and years later, he was still struggling with his PTSD. Did Sherlock have PTSD? 

_ Most likely,  _ John thought with a wave of sympathy.

One of the wounds John wiped elicited a shudder from Sherlock.

“Sorry,” John whispered immediately, grateful when his voice didn’t crack.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said stiffly. 

John’s pulse was heavy in his neck from the effort it took not to grab Sherlock and hold him close to his chest. He had to be in so much pain, and…

Horror smacked him in the face.

His own timeline. The night Sherlock came back, John had thrown him to the floor of the restaurant  _ on these open wounds.  _ His mouth opened with a gasp.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“N-nothing,” he said, voice high-pitched, hands shaking.  _ Oh my god.  _ He must have put Sherlock through immense pain, and he didn’t even know! Sherlock never told him! He stared at the bloody wounds, and the thought of hurting Sherlock further made him nauseated.

“Why did you stop?” Sherlock asked.

But he didn’t do it to this Sherlock. He couldn’t apologize to his Sherlock, and he couldn’t tell this Sherlock about the situation. His head was pounding.

“I just got lost in thought,” John said unsteadily, wiping his back again with trembling hands. He had treated Sherlock worse than he thought in his own timeline. The lump in his throat made his esophagus ache.  _ I’ll never get to say sorry… _

But here Sherlock was in front of him. He needed John now, in the present, not dwelling on a past that didn’t exist in this world.

John wanted to kiss the back of his neck. He wanted to gently place his lips on the wounds and kiss the pain away. He held himself back. He thought of touching Sherlock’s shirtless body before, but never like this. There was no way to enjoy their proximity when the man he loved had been whipped (Sherlock didn’t say that, but John was a doctor; he had a pretty good guess for what caused these kinds of lashes). He had been alone and captured and tortured all the way in a foreign country. John forced himself to expel the image of Sherlock being whipped out of his mind. He didn’t want to start crying again, for his sake and for Sherlock’s. John wiped off the last cut. “Okay, they shouldn’t get infected as long as you keep them clean and covered for a little while. I’m going to get the gauze. Be right back.”

Head spinning and stomach turning, John got the gauze from the bathroom and a pair of scissors from the drawer in the sink where they were always kept. He returned to the sitting room, cut a long strip, and began his work. Sherlock stayed quiet the whole time, and John didn’t know if it was from painful memories, shame, or just plain fatigue from the day. Maybe it was all three. Dressing Sherlock’s wounds meant wrapping his arms around his front, the gauze stretching over his abdomen and broad chest. Sherlock let him do it all.

His silence was unnerving.

“Talk to me,” John said, cutting another strip.

“What do you want me to say?” Sherlock asked. “If you want to know the details of these, don’t bother asking. It’s boring.”

John was pretty sure that was Sherlockian for  _ “please don’t ask me, I can’t talk about it right now.”  _ Fair enough. John remembered not wanting to talk about Afghanistan, and...hell, did he even want to talk about Afghanistan now? “I wasn’t going to ask,” John lied as he carefully laid out the long strip over three deep wounds. “Talk to me about anything.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, but then he said, “Mrs. Hudson screamed when she saw me.”

John laughed, relieved for the change in mood. “Poor woman. You must have nearly given her a heart attack.” He reached around again to wrap the gauze securely around Sherlock, his face close to the back of Sherlock’s head, the curls by his ear almost brushing John’s face.

“She was pleased when the screaming stop,” Sherlock said, a tiny bit of humor coming into his voice.

John hummed, and he covered up the last of the cuts. Sherlock had so much gauze wrapped around him that John was reminded of the wounded soldiers in Afghanistan, but there was nothing to be done about it. It wasn’t like he could put twenty band-aids on Sherlock’s back. “You’re done,” John told him, setting down the roll of gauze and scissors on the coffee table. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t get infected, but you should be okay.”

Sherlock looked at him from over his shoulder. “‘We?’”

Shit. That was presumptuous, and it made him sound desperate (but, he was desperate to live with Sherlock again). John cleared his throat. “Well.” He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Sherlock turned around on the cushions to face him, long legs bent at the knee. With the bandages and the dark circles under his eyes, he looked incredibly worn out and vulnerable. John’s heart clenched.

Sherlock gave him a long blink, like a cat. “You said you’re breaking up with Mary,” he said. “So you’ll have to find somewhere to live.”

Was this a not-so-subtle invitation? “Yeah, I will. It’s her house.” 

Sherlock suddenly got up, walking to the middle of the room and picking up his dressing gown. “Well, there’s still the bedroom upstairs,” was all he said as he tugged the bloody gown back over his body.

Definitely an invitation. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Yes.” He swallowed, and a touch of nervousness laced his voice. “We can--I’m sorry, I am, but we can be like we were before. We can go on cases, just you and me and the rest of the world.”

_ We can be like we were before. _

But they couldn’t, not ever, and that was something Sherlock fundamentally did not understand. Even if it hadn’t been for whatever the fuck kind of timeline jump John did, they would have never been the same after the Fall in any scenario, with Mary or without her. He wanted to weep for their lost dynamic, but he couldn’t.

And yet...he could try, couldn’t he? He could try to make things like they were before. It would be even harder now with the memories of his timeline burned into his mind, but Sherlock wanted to start a new chapter of his life with John. He couldn’t act like a depressed, pouting child.

“Yes,” John said gruffly, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, that, um, that would be good.”

Sherlock allowed himself to grin. “I’m glad you think so.”

He had to do something to keep from crying like a baby again. He had shed enough tears in front of Sherlock for the night. “Would you take off that disgusting thing? I know that’s not your only dressing gown.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a dramatic groan. “Fine.” He waltzed to his room.

John was glad to see him in slightly higher spirits than he was ten minutes ago.

Sherlock promptly came back with his tan dressing gown. “Better?”

“Much.” He bit his lip. “Does your back feel better now that it’s covered up?”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s eyes flickered down. “Thank you, for doing that.”

John tried to shrug it off. “I wasn’t going to let you keep bleeding all over your clothes. The blood could’ve gotten on my arms when I tried to hug you.”

The crude joke worked, as most crude jokes did with Sherlock. He laughed, “Yes, that would have been tragic.”

John chuckled, glad he could make Sherlock laugh after...well, the past twenty minutes. But, there was still a part of him that really, really wanted to hold Sherlock, if only for a moment, especially after seeing the state of his body. God, how hungry for a stupid hug was he? “It’s like us,” John said, walking towards Sherlock, “that the only time we act like normal friends and hug each other, it went wrong.”

A smile was still in Sherlock’s eyes, but his tone grew more hesitant. “Yes. Nothing is ever ordinary with us, is it?”

“Apparently not.”  _ Hug him! _

Sherlock was looking down at him with trepidation. “We can, of course, try again,” he said, most likely going for a casual tone, but it came out rough. “You’d know to be careful this time.”

“Yeah,” John cleared his throat, “yeah, I would be.”

Simultaneously, their arms slowly lifted and wrapped around each other’s bodies. John kept his arms high around Sherlock’s shoulders, but Sherlock’s arms were firmly around John’s back. John’s face was pressed into the soft, warm skin of his neck, and he had no idea how he was able to suppress a shiver. His heart was beating heavily in his chest, and he realized he was able to feel Sherlock's pulse beating steadily in his neck. The proximity was dizzying.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered.

He felt Sherlock swallow. “I’m glad you’re here, too,” his voice rumbled.

John couldn’t stand how much he loved him, but he noticed how heavy Sherlock’s body felt against his, and remembered that he hadn’t slept. 

“It’s late,” John murmured, “or, rather, extremely early. You’re home and you should rest. You need to heal.”  _ Physically and emotionally.  _

Sherlock pulled back and looked at him. “I suppose I should. Will you stay here?”

John removed his arms from Sherlock’s broad shoulders and checked the time on his (dying) phone. “It’s 3:45. I really don’t feel like leaving, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock smirked. “I see. You can charge your phone with my charger, by the way.”

He wouldn’t even ask how he knew it was on low battery. “Thanks, I will.”

They bid each other goodnight after John got the charger, and he went back upstairs to his old room. It felt strange, because even though he would work late-night cases with Sherlock in his timeline, he rarely slept in this room after he moved out, and he never slept in this room while wearing a bloody suit. Regardless, John climbed under the covers, not caring about the dust. He felt exhausted after the strangest and some of the most emotionally vexing hours of his life, and he figured this would be the ultimate test: sleeping. If this really was all in his head, then he shouldn’t be able to wake up in this universe.

John closed his eyes.  _ Here we go. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure it was done before, but I figured having John see the actual wounds to cause the scars would be a bit different and fun :P  
> Btw, I asked you in the (now-deleted) portion of the end notes for the last chapter if you wanted a story where Culverton Smith forces Sherlock to repeatedly confess that he loves John instead of saying he doesn't want to die before Culverton tries to kill him, and you seemed interested, so I posted it! It's called [I Want to Hear You Say It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10793391/chapters/23940729). It's an angst train, but I'll be adding a happy chapter soon!


	4. New Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up and finds himself stuck in this alternate timeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy I updated lol. Thank you all for the kudos and comments. I really enjoy writing this story, and I'm sorry I didn't update sooner, but I had work -_-

John was sweating, and his clothes felt uncomfortable against his skin and created friction with the sheets. He frowned and tugged at his shirt collar, wanting to cool himself down, and felt a tie. Wait he normally didn’t wear a tie to bed. John opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of his old bedroom at Baker Street. _Huh?_

It all hit him like a ton of bricks. John jumped up in the bed and looked down at himself, confirming that he was still dressed in his suit from the previous night. He put his hand over his racing heart, looking wildly around the bedroom. He was still here. He was still in this timeline at Baker Street. He went to sleep--he know he did. He could taste the sourness of his morning breath. This had to be real, then, even though he had no fucking idea how any of this was possible. He couldn’t be crazy since this was reality, right? This couldn’t be one big hallucination if he woke up in the exact same situation. He thought that was how these things worked, at least.

John rubbed his eyes. _Jesus._ This was really his life now, wasn’t it? He remembered Rosie, and a lump immediately formed in his throat. She...she was really gone, then. Even though he hadn’t spent time with her in the first few weeks after Mary’s death, he had grown used to waking up every morning and going straight to her room to change her nappy. He didn’t think he would ever miss doing that task. His chest felt hollow. _Rosie…_

He put his hand over his face, sniffing. She was just gone. He didn’t get a chance to say goodbye...

His phone started vibrating on the bedside table. John gulped, wiping his eyes. He reached over, unplugged the phone from its charger, and saw Mary calling him. His stomach dropped. _Just to add to my mood,_ he thought.

He answered the phone. “Hello?”

“John!” She sounded concerned. “Where the hell are you? I thought you would have come home eventually, but it’s morning and I have no idea where you are! I’ve been worried about you!”

John took the phone away from his ear to briefly press the home button to check the time. It was 6:34. No wonder he still felt tired. He was grimacing. She was worried about him because he never came home? How about when she abandoned him and their baby to go off to god-knows where with nothing but a note left behind? But, no, this Mary didn’t do that. She had the potential to do it, though.

But he had to act naturally. “Sorry, my head was somewhere else,” he muttered, voice gruff from sleep and crying. “I’m at Baker Street.”

“I wish you would have told me sooner,” she said with a sigh of relief. “You’re with Sherlock?”

“Well, I’m back in my old bedroom, but I was a few hours ago. I just needed to talk to him.”

“Of course,” she said with an air of sympathy. “It’s been two years since you last saw him. When do you think you’ll come home later today?”

 _Never_. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I just woke up and haven’t spoken to Sherlock yet.”

“Okay, well keep me posted. See you later.”

“Yeah, see you,” he said dryly, and hung up. He put the phone back on the table and sighed. He didn’t feel like seeing her again. A part of him wanting to get back under the sheets and go back to sleep, but his suit was still uncomfortable, and he wondered if Sherlock was awake yet. He was going to put his phone in his pocket, but paused. He unlocked the screen and looked at his background picture. It was of Mary, smiling for him. In the other timeline, his background was a smiling Rosie instead. He foolishly searched the photo gallery of his phone, but of course, there wasn’t a single picture of Rosie to be found. He had a couple of Mary, but he had a lot of Sherlock. He remembered this. When he thought Sherlock was dead, he kept all professional and candid pictures John could find of  him. In the other timeline, he had to delete quite a bit to make room for Rosie. Thinking about all of this was making his chest twinge, so he stopped.

John got out of bed and stretched. He needed coffee, but more importantly, he needed to brush his teeth. He went downstairs to find the sitting room and kitchen empty. He walked into the empty bathroom, and knew that Sherlock must have still been sleeping (and recovering from those injuries, John wanted him to sleep as long as he could). John found the toothpaste where it had always been, figuring Sherlock must have re-stocked on supplies when he returned, but he had no toothbrush. Shrugging, John squeezed toothpaste onto his finger and rubbed it on his teeth. It wasn’t exactly the best way to get the job done, but he had to do this countless times in the army. After rinsing his mouth in the sink, he looked in the mirror and grimaced. Maybe he really did look old with the mustache.

Suddenly, the door connecting the bathroom and bedroom swung open, revealing a shirtless, bleary-eyed Sherlock.

“Oh, hello,” John greeted him. “You okay?”

Sherlock blinked confusedly, squinting at him, gripping the doorframe with his right hand. “John?”

“Yeah, you okay?” he asked him again.

He nodded slowly. “Yes.” He stood up straighter, scratching at the gauze across his chest absentmindedly. “Yes, I was merely disorientated. Not used to waking up to company,” he explained simply.

Right. John nodded. He considered asking about Sherlock’s back, but remembered he only had his wounds dressed three hours ago, so the bandages didn’t need to be changed yet, and John didn’t want to remind him of his injuries unless he had to. Thinking about it, Sherlock needed more rest. “Go back to bed,” John told him. “It’s still early, and you told me you didn’t sleep before I came in last night--or, early this morning.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m awake now--”

“No,” John cut him off. “You need more than three hours of sleep and you know it.”

Sherlock sniffed, looking off to the side. “Wish I slept that long,” he said under his breath.

John was going to ask him why he didn’t sleep well, but with the state of his back, it wouldn’t have been shocking in the least if Sherlock was suffering from nightmares. John knew that feeling all too well, so he didn’t need to directly say it. His chest twisted with empathy. When he had nightmares, he didn’t want to go back to sleep, either.

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I think you should really sleep, but if you don’t want to, take it easy today, okay? Want some breakfast? Is there even food in the kitchen?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “I had chips last night, but I ate them all. I didn’t have time to shop yesterday. Mrs. Hudson would have something.”

“It’s still pretty early, Sherlock.”

“Elderly people tend to get up early.”

John snorted. “Sherlock,” he scolded.

“What?” he smirked. “She’s not exactly young, John.”

“Still, just, whatever. I’ll go see if she’s awake and if she has anything.”

This was nice, he thought. This felt strangely comfortable, even though he was still confused about his life and Sherlock had bandages covering his torso. He walked downstairs and knocked lightly on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

She answered it, wearing makeup and a dress and looking like she had been up for awhile. “Hello, John!” she smiled. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Hello,” he grinned. “I’m actually here for Sherlock. There’s no food in the flat, and, sorry to ask this of you, but he’d like some breakfast.”

“Oh, of course!” she clapped her hands together. “The poor boy must not have anything in his cabinets yet. Can you believe it? He’s back, John!” she exclaimed joyfully.

John smiled back because he was supposed to, but in a way he felt like a phony, because for him, Sherlock had been back for nearly a year and a half. “Yeah,” he said. “I can’t really process it all, to be honest with you. I don’t really know how to feel.”

Her smile faltered a bit. “But surely you’re glad to see him?”

“Oh, of course,” he assured her. “I am, but it’s a shock. It’s a real shock.”

“Right,” she nodded in understanding. “It’s quite a shock for me, too! But if you’re here, then you must have spent the night? I didn’t hear you come in this morning.”

“I did, yeah.”

“But, why are you in a suit?”

“It’s a long story,” he said.

“What about the woman you were going to propose to?” she asked.

John’s brow furrowed, but remembered that he visited Mrs. Hudson before he went to dinner with Mary the first time around. “What about her?”

She frowned. “John, I know it’s wonderful that Sherlock’s back, but is it really right to be unfaithful to her?”

John’s jaw dropped open. “What?” he spluttered. “Mrs. Hudson, we didn’t do anything like that,” he denied, astounded.

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, John Watson,” she said tiredly. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

He gaped at her. “I told you, Sherlock was never my boyfriend!” his face heated. “I didn’t cheat on Mary with him.”

Somehow, she looked even more disappointed in him, contradicting her previous scolding. “He came back from the dead and you’re not going to take advantage of that?”

John felt himself getting angry, but swallowed it down. He didn’t want to snap at Mrs. Hudson. “Maybe I didn’t want to take advantage of _him_ .” Maybe something could have happened a few hours ago, with Sherlock emotional and trusting and vulnerable, but he didn’t feel like either of them were ready for that, and it wouldn’t have been right. But, what was he thinking? He was still as unsure as ever of Sherlock’s feelings for him. He wanted to, god, he wanted to be with Sherlock, but he still didn’t _know_. Three hours ago was not the time to tackle that issue.

And, wait. Did he just come out to Mrs. Hudson?

That seemed to do it for her. “Ah, John, always the gentleman. I see. But what about, what’s her name, Mary?”

 _Fuck._ “Mrs. Hudson, can we talk about this some other time?” _Preferably never._ “Sherlock’s waiting upstairs.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’ll whip something up for you boys. I’ll be up soon.”

He flashed her a smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.” He all but fled up the stairs. _Bloody nosy landlady._ He saw Sherlock sitting expectantly at the kitchen table, and there was something strangely cute about it. One of his dressing gowns was now covering his torso, and although there were dark circles under his eyes, he looked somewhat cozy with his bare feet and silky dressing gown. He was reminded of when this was a normal sight for him to behold, in their glory days.

“She said she’s going to make us something and will be up in a few minutes,” he told Sherlock. John sat down at the table with him, getting lost in thought.

_“He came back from the dead and you’re not going to take advantage of that?”_

He didn’t the first time, but he found that it wasn’t that much easier the second time around.

* * *

After eating bacon and scrambled eggs, John rubbed his eyes and sighed. He couldn’t just stay in this suit all day, and he had to go back home--not home, but back to Mary’s flat--sometime. He didn’t know if he would break up with her today, because it might seem out of nowhere. Before Sherlock’s return, John remembered that his relationship with Mary was the best it ever was. She still didn’t fully understand him, he thought, but their relationship felt a lot less strained when Sherlock wasn’t around. Maybe she felt like Sherlock was competition for John’s attention? He didn’t know, because she acted like she liked him (other than the time she shot him, and John still felt immensely confused. If she hated him, then why did she joke and laugh with him?). But, the point was that breaking up with her now would seem really strange. Then again, he thought, did he really owe her an explanation? He really didn’t know what to do. Should he waltz into her house and announce he was breaking up with her?

 _“I agree. I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you,”_ Mary told him when he was trying to propose.

In retrospect, no she was not. But that was how she thought of herself.

“What’s bothering you?” Sherlock asked him.

 _Perceptive bastard,_ John thought. “I’m just wondering how I should break the news to Mary.”

Sherlock’s back was to him as he washed the dishes. John wished he could have seen his face, because there was the slightest clenching of his shoulders. “Well,” Sherlock said, “you broke up with numerous women when we lived together. She shouldn’t be any different.”

“It was more serious with Mary,” he said. “I never considered proposing to the others ones.”

“Then I don’t know,” Sherlock grumbled. “Women aren’t my area.”

John took a deep breath. _Don’t snap at him. He’s on edge._ “I’ll figure it out,” he said shortly. Sherlock hated talking about his girlfriends at the best of times, but now he was injured and running on no sleep. But, John wasn’t in the best mood, either. Maybe he should just go to Mary’s and get it all over with, rip it off like a band-aid. At the very least, maybe Sherlock would be in a better mood when he returned to the flat later.

“I think I’m going to go talk to her now,” John said, standing up. “I’m going to head out. I’ll probably be back later.”

Sherlock gave him a nod from over his shoulder. “Good luck, I suppose.”

John nodded back, finding his coat where he left it last night and shrugging it on. He would just have to explain to Mary that things weren’t working out, that was all. It would probably come as a shock to her, but he didn’t think there was ever a good time to break up with someone. Although he didn’t love her anymore, he dreaded this conversation. He walked out of the building, pausing on the pavement. He took out his phone and sent a text.

**Coming home now. We need to talk.**

He put the phone back in his pocket, sighing. This was going to be unpleasant.

Someone on the pavement shoved into him, and John scowled. “Oi, watch it.” Wait. Something felt very familiar about this. His gut told him to whip around, and he saw a man coming at him with a syringe. _The bonfire!_

John gasped and stumbled backwards, causing the man to stumble forward and trip. John made a dash to the door of 221B, managing to turn the handle and swing the door open. “Sherlock!” he shouted at the top of his lungs before he felt a sharp jab to his neck and fell backwards into darkness.

* * *

Everything was dark, and his body felt like it was made from stone. He couldn’t move, and it felt like lint was on his tongue. There was a strong, rhythmic pounding in his skull, and nausea fluttered through his stomach. John felt cool wetness wiping at his forehead gently, and he groaned. He parted his lips, his tongue detaching from the roof of his mouth, and he mumbled,“What’s goin’ on?”

“John?” A voice soft and sweet like velvet filled his ears.

“Sherlock?” He cracked open his eyes, and saw a wobbly image of Sherlock’s face. He couldn’t focus entirely on what was in front of him, but it registered that it was evening. He tried to ask what was happening, but it came out as an incoherent garble.

“Take it easy, John,” Sherlock told him softly, still wiping at his forehead, and it felt like a caress. “You were drugged. You had just left when I heard you shout for me. Two men tried to take you away out on the pavement.”

 _Magnussen,_ John’s groggy mind supplied. The bonfire, Magnussen, it was all coming back to him.

“Who’s Magnussen?” Sherlock asked.

John blinked. _Oh no._ Damn his drugged mind. He closed his eyes. “Hm?”

“You said ‘Magnussen.’”

“Dunno,” he croaked. God, he felt like shit. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock’s face was clearer. He realized he was lying on the sofa and Sherlock was sitting on the coffee table, wiping him with a cool washcloth. Was he feverish? He felt hot. The fucking suit was still on him. His mind was sluggish, and he felt like a moron for getting himself nearly kidnapped again. At least he didn’t wake up to flames this time around.

John swallowed and was able to form a complete sentence. “How’d I get here?” He tried to blink rapidly to clear his vision, but his blinks felt rather lethargic.

Sherlock retracted his hand and held the washcloth in his lap. “I grabbed my revolver before I ran down the steps, and all it took was the barrel of my gun in their faces to scare them off. I don’t know what their agenda was, but I imagine they were working for someone. I brought you upstairs after they fled.”

Did Sherlock carry him upstairs? _Oh, dear lord._ His mind supplied a blurry image of Sherlock looking at him lovingly, but with concern as he carried him, and John wanted to punch his drug-addled brain, if that were possible. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, because he saw the footage in Magnussen’s home of the other Sherlock rushing into the fire and pulling him out. Sherlock came to his rescue in this world, too, and John wanted to press a warm kiss to his lips (not that he could even if he had the courage to do so; he still couldn’t move. Did drugs make him affectionate?). But the darker side of his mind came forward, berating him, _He does nothing but save you, ran into a bloody fire for you, and you beat him onto a morgue floor._ He grimaced and closed his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock asked in concern.

God, he couldn’t get wrapped up in this now while Sherlock was watching him. “Sorry, I felt sick for a second.”

Sherlock patted his forehead with the damp washcloth again. “What they gave you was strong. You’ve been out for hours.”

John stayed quiet. He couldn’t think about his sins from the other timeline in this moment. He had to focus on the present, or what he thought was the present. John still wanted to kick himself, though. He was so wrapped up with whatever the fuck was going on and his feelings about Sherlock that he had completely forgotten about being drugged and put into a bloody bonfire! So much for knowing what would happen because he already lived through this.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” he asked, wishing he could sit up.

“You have no enemies, but I do. The only reason someone would attack you is to get to me. I already put you through enough misery over the past twenty-four hours.”

John’s vision was still a little blurry, but he could see the guilt on Sherlock’s face. God, he hadn’t even blamed the bonfire incident on Sherlock in his original timeline. Did Sherlock blame himself then, too? And yet, in the original timeline, John had not forgiven him for anything yet, so he must have felt even worse.

John tried to smile. “I patched you up last night, tonight you patched me up. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

Sherlock grinned softly. “Hm. I suppose.” His smile faded. “I am still sorry, about everything.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.” He was sluggish, but he his mouth and speech abilities were cooperating, and he felt his heart start to beat faster. “I feel like I’ve been living in an alternate timeline since yesterday,” he said honestly, and fuck, did that feel good to say. “But I’m glad to be here with you.”

Sherlock looked surprised, and his lips wobbled in a suppressed grin. “That drug has messed with your head.”

The front door abruptly slammed open, revealing Mary.

Sherlock quickly removed his hand from John’s forehead, the smallest flash of guilt on his face, but then it was gone.

“John!” she rushed over to him. “John, what happened to you?”

“Mary…” Great.

“John was drugged, Mary,” Sherlock told her, unfazed. “Two men tried to attack them, but I drove them off.”

“Oh, you wonderful thing!” she beamed at him, but quickly frowned. “Sherlock, did those men harm you?”

Sherlock stiffened immediately, turning pale. He was in the same outfit from earlier, pajama pants and a dressing gown, but the gown was open, revealing the gauze on his chest.

John felt extremely protective and his body tried to shoot up into a sitting position, but he only managed to lift himself up for a second before his body fell back to the sofa like a sack of potatoes, his limbs weak but heavy. “Mary,” he growled.

She looked at him, dark eyes startled. “What?”

“No, it’s from something else,” Sherlock said, monotone. “I’m going to put this back,” he held up the washcloth. “Be right back.” He pulled the dressing gown around himself and got up from the coffee table, walking to the bathroom where their laundry basket was.

John was _furious._ “Mary!” he whispered hotly. “The man just came back from two years dismantling Moriarty’s network. What do you _think_ his injuries are from?” He didn’t know how intimidating he was, lying there, completely immobile, but whatever.

Mary looked affronted. “I didn’t know, John!” she whispered back. “And I don’t appreciate your tone right now.”

John didn’t appreciate her making Sherlock embarrassed. Honestly, she was just being insensitive! “Don’t act like you care about him.”

Her brow was deeply furrowed. “What the hell is this about? I just met him last night, but you told me about him for years. I like him.”

 _This Mary didn’t shoot him,_ he reminded himself. “You should know better,” he got back to the point. “You’re--” His lips snapped shut. _You’re an assassin. You know about that kind of work._

Sherlock came back in, dressing gown firmly ties around his waist. He looked at them. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John said.

Mary was eyeing him, still irritated, but she turned to Sherlock. “Do you know who those men were?”

“No,” he replied. “I intend to find out, though,” he said seriously.

John knew, but there was no reason for him to know in this world, and he felt crazy.

She shook her head. “Those bastards. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t come home after texting me,” he turned to John.

 _Oh yeah._ He was supposed to break up with her, but truth be told, he didn’t want to do that when he could barely move. He felt tired and vulnerable. _God damn it._ He would wait until he could actually physically walk out on her, at least. Plus, he was in no fucking mood to have a serious emotional conversation. “Yeah, they got me right outside.”

“We should get you home,” Mary said. “You should rest in a bed, and out of that suit.”

Fuck. He wanted to stay here so badly. “I still can’t move,” he said.

“I can help you,” Mary said, leaning down and wrapping her arms around his torso. She lifted him up into a sitting position, placing a cool hand on his cheek and putting the other firmly on his shoulder. Her lipsticked lips pulled up into a smile. “See? There you are.”

John did not want her touching him like this. He tried moving, but his arms stayed weak by his sides. Something about being manhandled by Mary was humiliating, especially in front of Sherlock. His skin was crawling, and he wanted to push her away.  He felt no comfort in her embrace. He looked past her face and at Sherlock.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock saw his discomfort. “With all due respect Mary, I don’t believe you’ll be able to carry John,” he said politely. “Perhaps John should stay here until he is mobile.”

Mary turned around to look at Sherlock, and John wished he could see the expression on her face.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said in resignation, but just beneath the surface, there was something cold. “I want to stay here with him, though, if that’s all right.”

Sherlock flashed her a grin. “Of course.”

John’s stomach turned. _Don’t be nice to her,_ he thought, _she shot you once._ But it wasn’t this Mary, and it wasn’t this Sherlock. He really hated this. He _really_ wanted her to let go of him. He thought of something. “Can I ask for a favor, Mary?”

She looked at him. “Yes?”

“I’m tired of being in this bloody suit. Can you run home and grab me a change of clothes?”

Her blue eyes showed sympathy. “Oh, of course, John. You must be uncomfortable. I’ll be back as soon as I can!” She set him down so he was lying against the back of the sofa. She gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and John wanted to wipe off his mouth. “I’ll see you two soon.” She walked out of the flat, shutting the door behind her.

John meant to sigh, but it came out as a groan. “Thank Christ,” he muttered. “When do you think I’ll be able to move?”

“Two to three more hours,” Sherlock told him. He bit his lip. “You really don’t seem to care for her. It isn’t simply that she isn’t the one. You were disgusted when she kissed you.”

He managed to shake his head. “Sherlock, I really don’t want to talk about it. When I’m back on my feet and we’re in private, I’m going to end it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “All right. Are you thirsty? Want tea?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock turned on his heel to go into the kitchen, but he paused. “John, who’s Rosie?” he asked.

His heart stopped. “What?”

“You said that name in your sleep a couple times.”

“I--I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know anyone with that name.”

Sherlock’s cool eyes were on him. “Are you sure that drug didn’t mess with your head, John?”

“It’s been a rough twenty-four hours, Sherlock.”

But he regretted saying that, because Sherlock’s eyes flickered down. “Right. Apologies.” He walked into the kitchen.

John took a deep breath. He needed to adjust to being in this world, or else everyone would think he lost his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't want to make John just completely move on and forget about Rosie because I feel like that would be unrealistic, but he's not going to be totally hung up on her in every chapter.  
> Btw, I completely forgot to mention this in the last chapter, but if you were keeping up with [Proof of Sentiment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8159881/chapters/18699355), that's finished!  
> And, in case you didn't see the last chapter, I finished [I Want to Hear You Say It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10793391/chapters/24394785), so the angst has been resolved lol.


	5. Breaking It Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does what he's wanted to do for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeey thank you for all the kudos! I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am, because I'm having a lot of fun with this fic.  
> So, I asked this question on my tumblr, and I really want input.  
> Do you want The Final Problem to exist in this universe? Here's the thing: I would not write Eurus into this story. I don't want to deal with her. But, I want Sherlock's childhood trauma associated with the Redbeard situation to play a role. I won't spoil what I have in mind (not that it's a huge deal), but if you want John's first timeline to end with The Lying Detective, then I can find a way to work around it. Like I said, though, if TFP were to exist, you wouldn't have to worry about Eurus making an appearance. Let me know, please.

John’s hands and arms tingled as he tried to move them. He was getting his strength back, and it felt good to be able to fucking move a little bit. He sighed and was able to shift a bit on the sofa when he felt a hard bulge in his pocket, and his eyes widened in alarm as he remembered the box. _Shit._ Mary was coming back soon.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he asked from his chair.

“The ring,” he said, managing to get it out of his pocket. “Mary can’t find this.”

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. “Quite right. You want me to hide it?”

“Please. I really don’t want her accidentally seeing it.” God, how awful that would be. Simply breaking up with her was going to be a hard conversation, but if she actually saw that he was going to give her a ring and propose? He didn’t even want to think about it.

Sherlock walked over to him, extending his hand.

John gave the box to him, and their eyes locked, and he felt an odd pang in his heart. The jewelry box was small, and their fingers were touching. Sherlock held his gaze, his mouth tightened imperceptibly, and he took the box, and before he turned around, John saw him, look down at the box.

“I’ll put this in my room,” he said. “She won’t find it there.” He walked out of the room.

John placed his hand over his heart. He didn’t like this feeling. Was he just projecting, or did Sherlock seem sad, somehow, to receive the box from him? There wasn’t a reason for him to be sad, at least not one that John could see. John had felt strange because, if he were honest to himself, that was never the way he pictured giving Sherlock an engagement ring. He bit his lip. That was one of his deepest fantasies, not to have sex with Sherlock (although he certainly thought of that), but to be the one to sweep Sherlock off his feet, show him love and sentiment weren’t all ridiculous wastes of time, and marry him in front of all their friends and colleagues.

What a fucking soppy mess he was. What was he, a middle-aged man, or a little girl dreaming of marrying a prince?

But, well, maybe he should ask Sherlock about it. He had to be proactive this time, not an emotionally-stifled bystander to his own bloody life.

The front door opened. “I’m back!”

_Of fucking course._

Mary came over to him with a plastic bag in her hand. “I have a pair of jeans and a jumper for you,” she said. “I guess I should have thought to bring you a separate pair of shoes, too, huh?”

“It’s okay,” he dismissed. “Thanks,” he made himself say.

“You’re welcome. Do you need help putting these on?”

The last thing he wanted was for Mary to touch his bare body as he changed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I just need help getting to the loo--my legs are still shite--but I can handle it once I get there.” He didn’t exactly want Mary helping him to the bathroom, either, but he knew that if he tried to walk right now, he would stumble and fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes after a few steps.

“If you’re sure,” she said, and an awkward shuffle later, John was leaning on her as they made their way to the door down the hall.

Sherlock came out of his room and raised an eyebrow.

“Keep your comments to yourself,” John warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked into the sitting room.

When John sat on the toilet seat, he gave Mary a pointed look.

“What, you want me to leave?” she asked.

“A bit of privacy would be nice,” he said.

“John,” she said in annoyance, “we just had sex two days ago, and now you’re a prude?”

“I can dress myself,” he said firmly, cheeks heating.

“Fine,” she said testily, and left him with the plastic bag, shutting the door behind her.

John started by taking off his tie, suit jacket, and dress shirt, and pulled the jumper over his head. Maneuvering his way out of his trousers and into jeans was a little more difficult while his legs still felt numb but heavy at the same time, but after a couple minutes of tugging, he managed it, and damn, it felt good to be in clean clothes (although he needed a shower, but he thought he smelled fine enough for now). Grabbing the end of the sink next to the toilet and lifting himself up, he made his way back to the door. With the plastic bag with his suit in one hand, he clutched the doorknob with his other hand, and he heard Sherlock and Mary talking.

“--worried,” Mary said. “Whoever attacked John will probably strike again.”

“I agree,” Sherlock said. “Mary, does the name ‘Magnussen’ mean anything to you?”

There was a slight pause.

“Um, Magnussen?” Mary asked. “No, I don’t know that name. Why?”

_Liar,_ John thought with resentment. _You tried to kill him a month after our marriage._ Would she try to do that again now? But, this was confirmation that Mary was just as ready to lie in this timeline as she did in the last one.

“John said it when he woke up, but he said he didn’t know who that was. It’s odd. The mind doesn’t conjure up names it had not heard before.”

_Shit._

“John’s a private man,” Mary said. “Maybe it’s someone he knew from the army, but doesn’t want to talk about, although he’s told me all about Sholto.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked curiously.

_No._

“Oh, no one,” Mary said playfully. “It’s not important right now.”

There was a long enough pause that John was about to open the door, but Mary spoke again.

“You’re really glad to see him again, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock replied.

“I can tell. I’m surprised he’s forgiven you so easily, to be honest,” she said casually. “He’s not exactly known for his calm temper.”

Why was she saying this to him?

“I know,” Sherlock said, sounding stiff and uncomfortable. “I said I was sorry, though. Profusely.”

“I don’t doubt that, and I knew he would’ve forgiven you eventually. You were all he talked about since they day I met him.”

John felt exposed.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised and sad.

John needed to end this conversation. He opened the door, took a step outside, and his bloody bad leg crumpled and he gripped the doorknob tightly.

Mary rushed over to him. “Let me, John.” She took the bag from him and grabbed his hand. “Lean on me again.”

There was something mortifying about having to lean on Mary in front of Sherlock. “I’ll just sit at the table,” he said, and wobbled over to one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

“You look better,” Sherlock said. “I do wish Mary had brought you a razor, however.”

John smirked. “Too bad for you. I can’t be clean-shaven right now.”

“Oh, are you going to shave it?” Mary asked.

“You hate it, too,” Sherlock said with a curl of his lips.

John feigned surprise. “Do you?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you!” she cried. “It’s--I don’t think it exactly works for you.”

“Great,” he said, looking down at the table. Thinking about it, Mary didn’t compliment his physical appearance often, although he didn’t exactly call her beautiful every day, either. She was pretty, he thought. But, that...was it. Pretty. Perfectly feminine. It made an old, deep-rooted part of him uncomfortable to think he thought Sherlock was more attractive than a woman. He needed to get over this. He couldn’t let himself be afraid of being attracted to a man anymore.

He couldn’t think about this now.

“It’s for the best,” Sherlock said, folding his hands behind his back. “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

That sounded just as flirtatious as it did in the first timeline, but this time, Mary was here, and John said her dark eyes shift to Sherlock. It was brief, though--barely a flicker of her eyes. But John saw it, and Sherlock might not have known how suggestive that sounded, nor did he know what Mary was capable of.

John had to laugh it off. “Well, that’s not something you hear every day!”

Mary smiled hesitantly. “Yeah, no. No, it isn’t.”

Sherlock blinked. “Did I say something wrong?”

A part of John felt fond, because that was his Sherlock, but his heart sank, too. Maybe he really wasn’t interested in John that way.

“No, it’s fine,” John said. “Just a joke.” Right?

“Precisely,” he nodded.

God damn it.

Mary’s eyes were on John.

But then, Sherlock’s phone rang. He pulled it out of the pocket out his dressing gown and rolled his eyes. “Bloody Mycroft.”

“What’s he want?” John asked.

“He’s been trying to make me take a case for him since I returned. It’s not important. I’m going to tell him to piss off.” He answered the phone. “Must you harass me?” he hissed, and walked into his bedroom.

John was alone with Mary.

She laughed, “God, he sure is a piece of work. Your descriptions of him were really accurate.”

John gave a half-hearted smile. He flexed his toes, pleased when they cooperated, and his legs tingled a bit. Whatever those wankers gave him was fucking strong, but the effects wouldn’t last for much longer.

“Oh, John, before everything happened, your text said we needed to talk. What did you want to talk about?”

Damn. “We shouldn’t talk about it here,” John said.

Her lips slowly pulled down into a frown. “Why, is it serious?”

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sherlock is just in the other room. We should wait until we get back home.”

“Why?” she asked incredulously. “What could there be to talk about?”

“Mary, I really don’t think we should start this conversation now,” he said patiently.

“No, I think we should,” she crossed her arms. “Sherlock’s supposed to be a genius, right? If he hears us having a serious conversation, he won’t come in and interrupt.”

Why did she have to be difficult? “Mary, it’s about us.”

She blinked. “Us? What about us?”

Well, shit, the conversation was already started now.

“I want to know now,” she said sharply, fire swirling behind her eyes, placing her hands on her hips.

John never did enjoy this part. He sighed heavily, then swallowed. He looked up at Mary, thought of their wedding, her smiling in her wedding dress, her rubbing her pregnant stomach. He thought of the image of her in that dress blown up over the houses in Leinster Gardens after she shot Sherlock, how she carried a gun to meet Sherlock that night after nearly killing him, the way she never truly apologized for any of it (he didn’t think saying “sorry for shooting you that time” was a good enough apology, especially when _she_ attacked Sherlock, and he never did the same to her), and he thought of how she refused to let John name their child, and left him with a baby as she ran away.

“We need to break up.”

The fire behind Mary’s eyes was replaced with what seemed to be genuine confusion. _“What?”_

“Listen,” he said quietly, “it’s something I’ve been thinking about for quite a bit.” Well, that was technically true. He thought things would have been better if he’d broken up with Mary the first time for almost two years. “I just--you’re great,” he forced himself to say, “but I don’t think we’re cut out for each other.”

Her painted lips were parted in shock. “But, I thought we were just fine. John, if there’s a problem, we can work through it.”

So _now_ she wanted to work through everything, not when her past caught up to her and she abandoned him to hunt down Ajay. “There isn’t really a problem,” he lied. “I don’t think we’d be compatible for any real long-term relationship.”

“But, we’ve been living together without an issue for a year,” she protested. “I don’t understand where any of this is coming from! You made reservations for one of the best restaurants in London, and it was all going well until we got interrupted.”

John didn’t like that she was literally looking down upon him, so he put his hand on the table and lifted himself up (not that he was much taller than she was, but…). “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I--wanted to go to dinner to see if I’d feel that spark again, but it didn’t really work out.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, because Sherlock made an appearance! And why didn’t you tell me anything about not feeling a spark anymore? You just told me you loved me when we had sex a couple days ago.”

The afterglow of sex was the main time John ever told Mary he loved her, actually. “What was I going to say, that I didn’t love you anymore?”

Her shoulders sagged. “You don’t love me anymore?”

“No,” he put his hand over his face, “that’s not what I meant.” (Did he feel an ounce of love for her?) He removed his hand, and despite himself, he frowned when he saw the look on her face. The only time she looked more distressed was when he was dying. _Mary Watson was the only life worth living._ How much did he actually mean to her, though? How much could she have really loved that life, if she never truly left the other one behind? John fucking hated this. His head hurt. “I’m really sorry. But, I don’t want a domestic life in the suburbs. I don’t--I don’t think we’d last very long.” He was only married to her for about a year and a half. “I want--something else.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “What else could you want?”

_Sherlock._ Or, even if he didn’t want Sherlock, someone who wasn’t an assassin would be nice… “This wasn’t an overnight decision, Mary. I feel like you keep secrets from me,” he said boldly.

Her eyes widened. “Wha--what makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just an impression I get,” he lied. “I don’t think we can work if we keep secrets from each other.”

She shook her head again, sighing. “I don’t even know what to say, John. I can’t believe you don’t trust me.” She shock was fading, and embers of the fire were starting to ignite behind her eyes again. “Do you really think that little of me?”

“It’s...not that,” he said completely unconvincingly.

She didn’t buy it. “I wish you’d said something earlier instead of getting in your own bloody head and breaking up with me after taking me out to dinner!”

He could only stand there and take it, because saying anything that was on his mind would have given away that he knew her past. John was silent, hoping his face didn’t reveal the anger he felt towards her, because she had a chance to come clean now about hiding things from him. If she really wanted to save their relationship, then she would have, he thought.

Mary narrowed her eyes. “I was wrong about you. I thought you were a better man than this, John.”

“I guess I’m not,” John said, wanting this conversation to end and for her to leave him alone.

Her lips curled in disgust. “And where will you live? It’s _my_ flat, and I know you didn’t work enough during the two years you thought Sherlock was dead to afford a place of your own.”

“That’s none of your bloody business,” he sneered. “But, if you must know, I’ll just move back here. It’s none of your concern.”

She stared at him for a moment. “It’s just that easy for you. Walk away from everything we had move back to this flat.”

John thought that if he talked down upon himself, she would be convinced to leave. “Look, Mary, to be honest, you deserve better than me. If we were to keep going out, I’d barely be home.”  That was true. He was out with Sherlock on a case the day she went into labor with Rosie. He couldn’t stay away from Sherlock. He knew that now.

“Why not?”

“Well, I’d be going on cases with Sherlock all the time. I think we’d grow apart."

Realization visually dawned upon her. “That’s it. That’s why you’re breaking up with me. You want to run back to him,” her eyes shot lasers through him. "I was nothing but a replacement to you," she accused.

_Shit, shit, shit._ “Mary, no--”

“Save it!” she held up her hand. “You told me all of your other girlfriends broke up with you? I can bloody see why!” she shouted, her face growing red. “I should have known this is what you wanted to talk about. You never shut up about Sherlock the entire time we were together!”

“I thought he was fucking dead!” John snapped. “He was--he was my best friend!” He got dangerously close to saying _he was my life,_ and thankfully for the both of them, the thought remained unspoken. “So fucking sorry I was upset!”

“I supported you through all of that, and now you’re tossing me aside!” she waved her hand.

“I told you I had been thinking about this before!” he shouted back. "This isn't because of Sherlock."

“Fuck you,” she growled. “I’m going back to _my_ house and throwing all of your rubbish out on the pavement. If you want it, get it before someone steals it. I don’t care. You’re a right bastard,” she spat. “I always knew you were obsessed with him, so don’t try to tell me he has nothing to do with this!”

“I’m telling you he doesn’t!” His voice was growing hoarse.

“After all the times I sat and listened to you cry about him,” she said in repulsion.

John’s face was hot with humiliation. “I thought he was _dead_ \--!”

“You said it yourself to me several times: he’s a sociopath! He lied to you! What did you expect?” she taunted, teeth bared.

John clenched his fist tightly, shaking, feeling like his head was going to burst.

Mary, still wearing her coat from when he ran out to deliver his clothes, turned on her heel and stomped out of the flat, slamming the door so hard that it felt like the walls shook.

John sank back into the kitchen chair, knees feeling wobbly from standing for so long, and he put his face in his hands. He thought he would feel happy, but it felt absolutely drained. It was just as dreadful as he feared. She completely mortified him, used his grief against him. She hit him where it hurt. Did the other Mary really not care, too? John lifted his head from his hands when he realized the flat was silent. He turned and saw Sherlock, peeking from his bedroom, the door ajar.

John sighed. “Come out, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips were pressed together tightly as he entered the kitchen. “That was...do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he said honestly.

Sherlock nodded. “Well, I ordered Mycroft to have someone collect your things from Mary’s so you don’t have to go there.”

That was fast. “Thanks, Sherlock,” he said, but couldn’t bring himself to smile. What an exhausting day, and it was barely time for dinner. “Does your brother still want your help on that case?”

“Yes, but I told him I want to have a few days off from the Work.”

John raised an eyebrow. “ _You_ want a few days off? I don’t blame you, but it’s not like you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Honestly, John, don’t be ridiculous,” was all he said.

But he did take the case in the other timeline. John wondered if it were because Sherlock was alone at the time, and wanted a distraction from the memories of whatever he recently endured.

John got up and slowly made his way over to his chair, sitting down and rubbing his eyes. What a shitty day.

* * *

That night, after his (admittedly few) belongings were in boxes in his bedroom, John showered and, more importantly, finally shaved the bloody moustache off. When he rinsed the last of the shaving cream off his face, he looked in the mirror, and felt a little more like himself. He shut off the light and left the loo. He couldn’t help but wonder if Mary’s past would catch up with her like it did last time. Sure, she wouldn’t jump in front of a bullet for Sherlock this time, but Ajay might come after her.

But, her past wasn’t John’s fault, was it? He shouldn’t feel guilty about letting the consequences of her own actions potentially catch up with her. She was an adult. She was responsible for her past.

He let his thoughts slide away when he saw Sherlock. It had been over twelve hours since John put the gauze on his back, and as much as he didn’t want to upset Sherlock, the doctor in him compelled him to speak.

“Sherlock,” John called.

Sherlock looked up at him from the sofa, where he was texting on his phone.

“Your back,” he said simply.

His chest moved up and down in a long breath. “Must we?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock placed his phone on the table and sat up straight on the sofa.

_Right._ John quickly grabbed the roll of gauze and pair of scissors and returned.

Sherlock was taking off his shirt, quiet and reserved.

As much as he complained about Sherlock being annoying, John never liked it when he went silent. It was never a good sign. He was relieved, however, to see that the wounds didn’t look any worse than last night. It would take time for them to close up, but no sign of infection was encouraging. John’ heart still ached upon the sight of the broken skin, though.

Sherlock’s silence made John uneasy. He was always silent when truly in pain...no. No, that wasn’t always true. John remembered how Sherlock was animated and larger than life while ridiculously, dangerously high on the Culverton Smith case. Molly said it herself; he had been dying. He had to have been in pain, but he completely ignored it.

_John_ ignored it. At the hospital, he had let Sherlock shoot up in the restroom. He let Sherlock saunter around in public completely off his tits, health in serious danger. Why did Sherlock act like nothing was wrong then? Did he want to prove Culverton guilty that badly?

“Your thinking is loud,” Sherlock murmured.

John was glad he was talking. He was applying fresh bandages to his back, movements gentle. “I was…” He wanted to ask Sherlock about that incident, but this Sherlock didn’t know anything about it. “I had a dream last night,” he lied.

“People have multiple dreams every night,” Sherlock stated.

“Yeah, I know,” he rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you were in it.”

“Was I being intelligent?”

“No.”

“No?”

John bit his lip. “You were high as a kite.”

Sherlock’s muscles stiffened beneath his hand. He turned his head to look at John. “I’m clean. You know I am.”

“I do,” John said quickly. “I’m not trying to imply anything. It was what my brain conjured up, though.”

Sherlock looked uneasy, but he turned back around to let John continue putting the last of the gauze on. “Do you know why I was high?”

“I do. Well, no. I don’t know.” _You made yourself go through hell to save me, because I was an awful shite and blamed you for Mary’s death._ “You had a plan of some sort for a case. I dunno, the details were fuzzy. But you insisted on getting high. It was bad. Molly evaluated you and said you had weeks to live, and you didn’t care. You kept going and kept using. You were haggard, greasy, and completely out of your mind. You were hallucinating and nearly stabbed a man. You shot up in a bloody hospital, and I didn’t stop you.” John’s voice grew quicker and louder as he went on, and it wasn’t until the end when he realized he sounded way too distressed.

Sherlock looked back at him again. “John, it was just a dream.”

John couldn’t meet his eyes. He covered up the last of the cuts and put the roll of gauze and scissors on the coffee table. “I know.”

Sherlock turned around completely, brow furrowed. “You seem upset.”

John was looking down at his pajama bottoms. “Yeah, well. It was upsetting. You were a mess and I did nothing to stop it.” He resisted the urge to clench his fist. He had to control himself.

“John,” Sherlock said, voice low and rich, “it wasn’t real.”

But, god damn it, it _was_. “But, what if I did that?” he asked. “What if I really let you do that to yourself?”

“You shouldn’t be held accountable for whatever mistake I make,” Sherlock said, puzzled. “Obviously.”

John looked up. “Friends don’t let each other down like that.”

Sherlock’s normally-light eyes were dark, the light from the lap shining behind him and not hitting his face. It would have been sexy, if he didn’t look so confused. “I don’t see the merit in berating yourself over a situation that didn’t happen.”

It felt like someone pricked his stomach with a pin. _If only he knew._ John didn’t know what to say.

Sherlock swallowed, and it was audible in the silent sitting room. “Besides, look at what you just did for me. You’ve patched me up two nights in a row. That matters more than your dream.”

That might have been true. John was choosing to be good to Sherlock _now_ , and that had to count for something.

“You wouldn’t be angry, though? If I just let you do that to yourself?” John asked.

The look on Sherlock’s face was as if he bit into a lemon. “No, of course not,” he said immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”

John really didn’t deserve him. He cleared his throat, heart thumping painfully, turning his face towards the unlit fireplace.

“I don’t like this, John,” Sherlock said slowly. “It was a dream. That’s it.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, his exhale somewhat shaky. “Yeah.”

Sherlock’s hand touched his knee.

John looked up at him.

Sherlock was staring at him. He drew back his hand. “You shaved.”

John couldn’t help but snort at the complete non-sequitur. “Yeah. Feels good.”

“Facial hair doesn’t suit you,” he said bluntly.

“Doesn’t exactly suit you, either,” he teased, but his mind screeched to a halt. He was thinking of when Sherlock had stubble during the Culverton affair.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “When have you seen me with facial hair?”

A nervous tingle was gripping his spine. “You used to go without shaving some mornings,” he said. “Even the smallest bit of hair doesn’t suit you.”

Sherlock pouted. “Rude.”

_Oh, thank fucking Christ._ John reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s T-shirt from the floor, where he had thrown it. “Put your shirt back on.”

Sherlock did, giving him a fake glare.

John let out a deep breath, reclining on the sofa. “Your back is on the road to recovery, so far,” he said, starting to feel a little comfortable.

Sherlock nodded, trying to recline, too, but wincing.

“Don’t put pressure on your back,” John told him. “I know it’s just a sofa, but still.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said petulantly. He curled up on his side, resting his cheek against the back of the sofa. “Turn on the telly.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I’m comfortable.”

John got up and grabbed the remote, flipping on the news.

Sherlock grumbled, but didn’t say to change the channel, so John left it on, acutely aware of Sherlock’s proximity.

This felt familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. They used to watch television in the old days, but after John moved out after Sherlock’s death, they never really did this again. It reminded him of simpler times. He tried not to let himself be consumed by his thoughts again. He felt enough depression for one day.

John noticed that Sherlock’s breathing was growing slower, and remained absolutely still and silent. He knew from experience that any sudden movements could startle Sherlock back into alertness, and any suggestion of going to bed would be met with stubborn defiance. John wanted to Sherlock to sleep after everything he went through.

A few minutes passed, and John slowly turned his head on the cushion.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his plump lips were parted, his T-shirt expanding over his chest with each slow inhale. His features were smoothed out and lax, and it was nice to see him at ease. John couldn’t remember the last time he saw Sherlock like this.

But, Sherlock had nightmares last night, and there was a good chance he would have more. John was tired, and he knew it was late, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock, at least not until he entered REM sleep.

_Yeah,_ he thought. He’d wait until Sherlock was definitively in a deep sleep, and then he would go up to his room.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep, and he tucked his hand under his chin. His curls were splayed messily over his forehead, and John wanted to smooth them out. He didn’t, fearing he’d wake him, and felt, again, for the millionth time in his life, how besotted he was with Sherlock.

John carefully turned his body towards Sherlock so he can look at him better, and he thought that if all of that bullshit with Mary today meant that he could live with Sherlock, and experience something as simple, yet precious as this, then he made the right decision today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read more than one of my stories, you've probably noticed sleepy fluff is my fucking weakness, so expect a little bit next chapter :P But then it might get really dark lol


	6. Adjusting. Maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to adjust to his new life in an old timeline, but someone has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for answering my question last chapter. The response was actually more mixed than I thought! However, the childhood given to Sherlock in TFP will not appear in this story. I do think that plot point has merit, but I think it would be too difficult to have John be aware of Sherlock's past and secret sibling, and keep that from him, you know? Plus, most of you guys said you either didn't care, or didn't want the Redbeard/Victor plot.  
> So, all of that is to say TFP does not exist in this story. I'm sorry to the people who wanted that episode to be addressed, but it would be tough to write it in.  
> None of this has any impact on this chapter, though :P

John was groggy and he felt hot, rhythmic breaths puffing onto the crook of his neck and a bit of his shoulder. He was too tired to really think much of it for a minute, and there was a comforting pressure on his chest, so he fell back into a doze. But, the breaths persisted and started to give him gooseflesh. John crinkled his brow and whined. He yawned, mouth dry from sleep. His other senses sluggishly kicked in, and he heard a soft, low noise, almost like a vibration. John turned his head, and his mouth met soft, messy hair. He frowned because the hair tickled his lips, and feeling that he was sitting (well, kind of slumped, but whatever) upright, he concluded he must have been on the sofa, and it must have been Sherlock’s curls on his face. John opened his eyes and looked down, but saw nothing but hair, and it clicked that the low sound he heard was Sherlock snoring into his skin and T-shirt.

John rolled his eyes upon thinking that he’d have to deal with that in bed every night, but his thoughts skidded to a halt. God, his tired brain was really getting ahead of itself, wasn’t it? He only broke up with Mary yesterday, and there was his stupid mind saying, _Well, time to share a bed with Sherlock._

John took in his surroundings, and it wasn’t until then that he noticed the blanket draped over his and Sherlock’s laps. He wondered how it got there, because he didn’t remember grabbing it--he didn’t even remember falling asleep--but then he saw a tea tray on the coffee table, and realized Mrs. Hudson must have been here. His head fell back against the sofa cushion. Well, that wasn’t embarrassing at _all_.

John’s arm, which was pinned under Sherlock’s body, was tingling from lack of circulation, so he gently extracted it from under the warm, heavy weight. Sherlock barely stirred, only tightening his fingers in the fabric of the T-shirt across John’s chest.

John couldn’t remember the last time he had someone cuddle up against him like this; he and Mary slept as far apart from each other as possible on their bed for the entirety of their marriage. He didn’t exactly know how he and Sherlock ended up in this position, but it didn’t surprise him that his body sought out Sherlock’s, and, well, Sherlock was touch-deprived, wasn’t he? His body probably wanted any old touch and not John’s specifically. Hell, he apparently didn’t intend the clean-shaven comment to be flirtatious yesterday…

Jesus, what was wrong with him this morning? He was barely awake for two minutes and he was getting depressed. _Focus on the positives,_ he told himself. Sherlock was sleeping, and deeply at that. That was a good thing. He needed sleep after going through god-knows what for two years. John looked down, tilting his head, trying to see his face. The movement caused Sherlock’s breath to hitch, and he lifted his head for a second only to put it back down on John’s shoulder, but a little higher this time and farther away from John’s neck, so his face was more visible.

Sherlock’s eyes moved beneath the lids, he swallowed with a small, deep moan, and his mouth opened.

John was amazed at his own capacity to be enchanted by Sherlock’s displays of basic human behavior.

Sherlock sighed in his sleep, and then his chest expanded when he started snoring again.

John carefully grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to Sherlock’s shoulder, heart feeling full, face warm, and he thought it felt bloody good to be looking after him like this. He slowly, tenderly stroked Sherlock’s flushed cheek with the back of his curled fingers--just once, to avoid waking him. John really wanted to brush the fringe from his forehead, and wrap his arm around him, and--shit, he was a soppy mess this morning. He supposed it was because he never woke up next to a sleeping Sherlock before (he didn’t think the morning after his stag night in the prison cell counted, or when Sherlock had leaned back and closed his eyes when they were in a cab on the way to Culverton Smith’s hospital...).

 _No,_ he scolded himself. _Don’t think of that. Look at him now._

John resisted the urge to hold Sherlock and stared at him for about three minutes, until some wanker outside decided to drive their motorbike obscenely loudly down on the street below, and Sherlock’s lip twitched and his brow furrowed. He smacked his lips and lazily scratched his jaw. His hand disappeared under the blanket again, he cleared his throat, and his eyes blinked open.

John felt kind of nervous, because he didn’t know how Sherlock would react to their proximity.

Sherlock blinked slowly. “John?”

“Hey. I think it’s still early. You should go back to sleep.” _I don’t want you to get up yet._

Sherlock lifted his head, drowsy eyes scanning their situation, and he sat up, stretching, scratching the back of his neck. “No, I should get up,” he said, a red tint to his cheeks.

Was he getting up because he was _that_ uncomfortable? John cleared his throat. “Well. Okay.”

Sherlock’s hair was everywhere, sticking up, and John hated that he found it sweet. John sat up, too, taking the blanket off him. He suddenly felt self-conscious and paranoid, wondering if his face portrayed any obvious signs of being love-struck when Sherlock woke up. Maybe that was why he was so quick to get up.

Sherlock grabbed a cup of tea from the tray on the table, sipping casually.

John sighed, getting up, planning on brushing his teeth and going upstairs to his room, when Sherlock’s phone, which was left on the table last night, emitted one sound: _Ahhh._

John could have sworn he felt the blood stop in his veins. Did the bloody Woman know he was feeling upset this morning? Was she out to torment him?

“What was that?” he asked, voice tight.

Sherlock’s hand was hovering in the air, teacup dangling, nearly getting tea on the floor. “What was what?”

“Sherlock. Your fucking phone.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Why such harsh language, John?”

He needed to calm down. “Sorry. I’m irritable when I’m hungry. I’ve not had breakfast yet.”

It was a terrible lie, and Sherlock looked utterly unconvinced. He placed the teacup down on a saucer on the tray. He then picked up his phone, shrugging with one shoulder. “You have ears, John. You know what that was.”

“So, you still talk to her, then?” He knew the answer to that, of course. Sherlock was still getting texts from her over two years after this point in the other world.

“I didn’t talk to her while I was away, if that’s what you’re thinking. This is the first time she’s contacted me in years. Her text reads, ‘I heard you’re back in London safe and sound. We should have dinner to celebrate.’” Sherlock’s eyes flickered up to his, gaze sharp. “Satisfied?”

“I was just asking,” John held up his hands. He busied himself by folding the blanket on the sofa. “So, are you going to dinner with her?”

“You’re curious this morning, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked in a sardonic tone.

John placed the folded blanket on atop one of the arms of the sofa. “I’m just asking. Dinner might be fun. You two seemed to really hit it off,” he said bitterly. What the fuck was he doing? He was supposed to make things right between _him_ and Sherlock, not Irene and Sherlock! Did his bollocks fall off and roll under the sofa while he slept?

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard that it looked painful. “For god’s sake, John, I’ve said, repeatedly, that romantic entanglement is not for me.”

There it was--again. The words were a shot to John’s heart, although he shouldn’t have been surprised, because this was Sherlock’s response when pressed about the Woman two years after this point. John’s left hand started twitching, and he stuck it in the pocket of his pajama pants. But, although it proved fruitless the first time, he wanted to try to convince Sherlock that romance was worth his time. How was he supposed to get together with Sherlock if he was still acting this way?

“I think you’re mistaken. I think romance can do you wonders.”

Sherlock lowered his hand with his phone slowly, eyes skeptical. “Two years have passed, and you’re still relentlessly invasive into my personal affairs.”

John thought that if he had a tail, it would be between his legs right now. Feeling sick with disappointment, John lowered his eyes. “Never mind,” he said, knowing if they talked about this more, he would only make it worse. “Just think about it,” he muttered, and walked towards the steps to his room.

“I thought you were hungry?” Sherlock called after him.

“Lost my appetite,” John barked over his shoulder, louder and harsher than necessary, but he felt like a wounded animal that needed to lick its wounds. He closed his bedroom door and leaned against it, the hard wood against his back, sliding down to the floor, knees drawing up to his chest. He put his face in his hands. Jesus Christ. Why was is that he was only awake for fifteen minutes, and he felt like utter shit already? How did his conversations with Sherlock have the spectacular ability to go horrendously wrong within seconds?

John got up, sulked to his bed, and lay down on it. He _was_ hungry, actually, but couldn’t face Sherlock at the moment.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He took the time to delete all of the pictures of Mary from his phone, along with her number. He changed his lockscreen to a generic picture of a landscape, because as much as he loved Sherlock, even he knew having a picture of him as his lockscreen would have been creepy since they weren’t in a relationship.

He heard someone knock on the door down below, footsteps, and then the voices of who he now recognized as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. _That’s right,_ he thought. It was the day after what would have been the bonfire incident, when he visited Baker Street without being assaulted and found Sherlock’s parents casually sitting on the sofa. He figured he would leave Sherlock to it, and remembered that when he did eventually talk to them again, he would have to act like he didn’t know them. This timeline was fucking odd.

John decided to occupy his time with unpacking what he retrieved from Mary’s place, and arranging it all around his room. It took more time than he thought it would have, because right as he looked around, surveying the room, there was a light knock on his door.

He couldn’t pretend he was asleep, because Sherlock must have been able to hear him walking and moving stuff around. He bit the bullet and opened the door.

Sherlock was there, dressed in one of his suits, the smallest bit of sheepishness on his face. “My brother won’t stop pestering me about this case,” he explained quickly. “It has to do with terrorists, so it can’t be ignored anymore.”

“You were ignoring a terrorist threat?” John asked.

“Not exactly. I knew the case didn’t need my urgent attention, but now it does, so here I am. Could be dangerous. Want to come?”

John couldn’t stay mad at him. “Let me get dressed and brush my teeth, and I’ll be right there.”

* * *

The case went as it did before, only this time, John accompanied Sherlock to where he took Molly in the other timeline, and when they reached the train with the bomb, there was no need for Sherlock to pretend that he couldn’t solve it and they were about to share their last moments. John thought before that Sherlock only did that as a cruel joke, but now, he wondered if he pretended they were going to die so he could properly apologize to John and receive an apology. John couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t ask the other Sherlock.

But, the knowledge of the other timeline didn’t dampen the excitement they felt on the case, and this time, it really was just the two of them against the rest of the world. John would go back home to Baker Street--not Mary’s, and it was blissfully refreshing.

“Now that that’s over, I really will ignore Mycroft’s requests for a few days,” Sherlock stated, taking off his shoes after they went upstairs. “I already told him that in exchange for my help on this case, he has to take my parents to see _Les Misérables.”_

“What’ve you got against _Les Miz_?” John asked in amusement.

“Nothing, but Mycroft hates musicals.”

John laughed. “I see.” He was incredibly grateful for the case, because Sherlock was smiling again, and nothing put a halt to any conversation about emotions like the Work. It was both a blessing and a curse. They were high off adrenaline, the atmosphere light and bubbly.

As much as John hated to ruin the mood, he cared about Sherlock’s health. “Sorry, Sherlock, but I’m going to need to check your back again.”

He stiffened a little, but his mood didn’t dissipate completely. “Must you?”

“I do,” John said, rolling up his sleeves. “Get undressed and I’ll be right there.” Well, that was a sentence he’d always wanted to say in a different context. Regardless, he got everything he needed and, like the previous two nights, sat behind Sherlock on the sofa. He was glad to see the wounds were still on the right track for healing, although they remained deep.

“How badly do these hurt?” John asked quietly as he worked. “Tell me the truth.”

“It’s a little better than a couple nights ago, but these feel rather unpleasant,” Sherlock admitted.

John was sympathetic. “At this rate, you’ll start feeling better soon enough. Just don’t try to irritate the cuts and all that.”

“I know.”

They fell into silence, and there was intimacy in this setting. It wasn’t sexual, but Sherlock was allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of John, and like the past two nights, John felt his stomach clench with compassion, and couldn’t keep his mind off the past.

“I had another dream last night,” John said as he gently placed another strip of gauze on his torn skin.

“Was I high again?”

“No,” John winced, not wanting to think of the Culverton period in their lives. “I got married to Mary.”

“Oh?” Sherlock sounded interested. “Was it a good dream?”

John thought about it. “Well, it wasn’t bad. She looked nice--in my dream. Traditional white gown, veil, matching bouquet and all that. I don’t really remember much of the ceremony,” he admitted. “The dream was mainly about the reception, because you gave a speech.”

“Why would I give a speech?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“You were best man.”

“I was?” he asked, surprised and amused.

John smiled a little. “Yeah. That’s what best friends do.” He was behind Sherlock, but was pretty sure he was grinning.

“Was my speech excellent?”

“It was amazing and horrible at the same time.”

“John!”

“It was,” John laughed at the memory. “You insulted the guests, were clearly out of your depth, a bit, but you made everyone cry. In a good way.”

“How did I make people cry ‘in a good way’?” he asked wryly.

A little flame lit in John’s stomach, enough to make him feel warm and somewhat content. “You had very kind things to say about us--well,” he cleared his throat, “mainly me. Mrs. Hudson cried. In the dream.”

“Well,” Sherlock said softly, “I suppose that if I were to give a speech all about you, it would have to speak highly of you out of necessity.”

John’s hands paused. It was moments like this which confused him to no end. Did he seriously not know how kind he sounded? Or, that normal male, nearly-middle-aged friends didn’t say tender things about each other like this? “See, you were like that,” he said quietly, half lost in thought. “But then an attempted murder interrupted the reception, and you solved the case.”

“Oh, how delightful,” he said with glee. “This is much better than your rubbish dream from the other night.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I guess. Except for the marrying Mary part.” He smoothed down the last of the gauze, and he was done. “There. I know you’re still hyper from the case, but try to sleep, okay?”

Sherlock made an annoyed, unintelligible grumble, and John went to bed, feeling better about today than he did in the morning.

* * *

John awoke to a voice shouting downstairs, so he jumped out of bed and ran downstairs, but his nerves calmed when he saw Lestrade and Sherlock standing in the sitting room.

“Oh, hello,” John said, feeling foolish for running down the stairs like a lunatic.

Lestrade’s eyes were wide, and he threw his hands in the air. “You’ve been here? You knew he was back?”

“Sherlock,” John scolded him, “you didn’t tell him?”

“I hadn’t the time,” he said simply.

Lestrade was glaring at Sherlock, shaking his head. “You bastard.” He then threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck, not caring about John’s presence.

Sherlock stiffened, eyebrow rising on his forehead.

John put his hand to his mouth, trying not to laugh at his face. He did feel sorry for Lestrade, though, knowing he had cared about Sherlock, too. He figured he would give them a moment, and walked to the loo to wash up. When he went back into the sitting room, the hug had broken, and Sherlock was looking out one of the windows.

“Is something going on?” John asked.

“Yeah, there are reporters outside,” Lestrade said. “Word’s gotten around that the great Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. That’s how I found out. Thanks for that, by the way,” he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock moved away from the window. “Well, I knew this would happen sooner or later.”

John remembered this, too, when Sherlock made his triumphant return and was adored in the papers again. He knew, too, that Sherlock enjoyed it more than he was letting on.

“I suppose I’ll have to face them,” he said. “John, would you accompany me?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “Let me get dressed.”

And there they were again, Sherlock with cameras and microphones held up to his face, wearing the bloody hat, announcing to the country that, yes, he was back, _obviously,_ with a smug smile on his face.

John stood beside him, just as he did before, watching with a swell of pride as Sherlock was redeemed in the eyes of the public. Sherlock was back at the top of his game, and John remembered with a kick to the gut that his name would be dragged again, when he accused a celebrity of murder...only, no, his name was cleared again because Sherlock was right, and John wouldn’t let him get high like that again. He would be there this time.

“Dr. Watson,” a reported called his name.

He snapped out of his thoughts. “Yes?”

“Can you tell us what it was like to work with Mr. Holmes again after all this time?”

He remembered this question, and gave an answer resembling what he said years ago.

Eventually, the reporters left Baker Street, and when they went back into the flat, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were talking.

“Oh, he’s wearing the hat again!” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “I do love that hat.”

Sherlock gave her a smile, but immediately took it off and threw it across the room. “Is there tea, Mrs. Hudson?”

She huffed. “No, but I’ll make some only because you’ve got company over,” she referred to Lestrade.

“Actually, I should get going,” Lestrade said. He looked at Sherlock with a sigh. “Well, now that you’re back, I assume you’ll be helping out at the Yard again?”

“Of course.”

“All right.” He gave John a nod. “John. Glad to see you’re doing well.”

John nodded back, thinking back to when Lestrade brought him the box of Sherlock’s things when he was still dead.

Lestrade left, and Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson. “Make the tea anyway.”

She sighed. “Only because you just got back,” she muttered, and went to the kettle.

John didn’t think things ever felt this domestic in 221B again after Sherlock came back in the other timeline, and he felt a bit of hope. Maybe it would take time, but they would get on the right track. They maybe could have the life they were meant to live. They had all the time in the world, right? _Yeah, it’s all fine,_ John thought to himself, sitting in his chair across from Sherlock, giving him a small smile.

* * *

Something pulled John out of sleep. He sat up in bed, bleary-eyed and confused. The room was dark, the neon numbers on the clock on top of the bedside table revealing it was 4:37 in the morning. He didn’t have any nightmares, so that couldn’t have woken him up. John strained his ears. He heard something small, the slightest bit of sound. But, Sherlock was downstairs, and it wasn’t unusual for him to be moving around late at night. That was what he told himself, but his heart was pounding, dread encircling his gut.

Then, there was a heavy _thump_ that came from below, and John was on his feet, running down the steps. The sitting room was dark, but when he flipped on the light, the room was empty, along with the kitchen. The bathroom door was open, revealing no one inside. John ran to Sherlock’s bedroom, flinging the door open.

The bedroom was dark, too, except for a patch on the carpet engulfed in moonlight. That bit of floor was below an open window. Sherlock never kept the windows open. Stumbling through the room, calling Sherlock’s name, John found the lamp and switched it on. He only saw a glimpse of Sherlock on the floor at the other side of the bed before he was running to the other side of the room and crouching down.

Sherlock was in his pajamas, and dark, red blood was soaking a section of his T-shirt, right by his sternum, below his chest and high on his ribcage. The image of Sherlock on the floor of Magnussen’s office flashed before his eyes, because the wound was in the exact same spot, and John knew that he had to act _fast_. Sherlock barely survived the last time. John searched frantically around the room for Sherlock’s mobile phone, and called 999 as soon as he found it charging on the bedside table. He barely even registered the words that left his mouth, but he was pretty sure he told the woman on the phone their address and to _please, hurry! He’s dying!_

His mind was a blurry mess, but he was back by Sherlock’s side, on his knees, applying pressure to the wound, heart trembling at the sight of his face, pale and lifeless, a far cry from the picture of relaxed beauty John witnessed while Sherlock slept. How many fucking times did John have to see Sherlock’s dying face? Was this punishment for his wrongdoings?

“Sherlock?” he asked brokenly, pointlessly. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” _Of course he can’t,_ John thought. Just as he couldn’t last time.

The fact that there was a last time--that this was happening again--acidic bile sloshed around his stomach. John knew who did this. No one tried to attack Sherlock at this time in the other timeline. He knew it was her, the moment he saw the location of the wound. How did John not anticipate this?! He was supposed to make things better, and he nearly got Sherlock killed! But, he wasn’t even out of the woods yet. What if Sherlock didn’t pull through this time? What if he wound up fucking Sherlock up even _worse_ this time around?

“I’m sorry,” John cried over him, hot, bitter tears leaving his eyes and dropping onto Sherlock’s T-shirt. “I’m so sorry! Things were supposed to be different. Please, please don’t die on me. Not _again_ ,” he cried, chest heaving with small sobs. “Please, I’m sorry, I love you,” he babbled. “I love you. You can’t do this to me again,” he choked out, Sherlock’s expressionless, clammy face sending horrible chills down his spine. He didn’t have the capacity to process any of this--it all felt like a dream ( _Was it?_ he asked himself about this world for the hundredth time). He was shaking, and his hands were wet with Sherlock’s blood, and as he heard sirens roar outside, he pleaded, _Please, God, let him live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lolz


	7. In the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John accompanies Sherlock to the hospital after he's shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEEEEEEEEEY thank you guys for over 400 kudos!!!!!!!!!!! You're amazing <3 I'd meant to thank you for 300 kudos a couple chapters ago, but here we are.  
> By the way, I was surprised at how many of you did not see the end of chapter 6 coming lol. I thought it was obvious and kinda crappy pacing on my part, but I didn't want to drag it out until this chapter.

The paramedics rushed Sherlock into the ambulance as quickly as they could without hurting him, and like last time, John was there, sitting beside him in the back of the ambulance. An oxygen mask was strapped to Sherlock’s face, the sound of the sirens was piercing, and the driver was going as fast as he could. Last time, though, while his heart was going wild and he was terrified, John kept his composure. This time, he didn’t give a single fuck about the presence of the paramedics. Tears were still leaking down his face, his eyes hurting from crying so much. Sherlock’s shirt had been taken off, and John could see the deep wound on his chest, and the dark red blood surrounding it. It was definitely the same wound as before; John had the image of Sherlock’s bullet wound burned into his brain. His head swam between stress and how quickly the ambulance was driving, and his limbs trembled violently. Sherlock’s head lolled to the side as the ambulance turned down the street, completely lost to the world ( _don’t think “dead to the world”_ , John thought grimly).

They rushed Sherlock into emergency surgery, the concerned looks on the faces of the doctors and surgeons worrying John. He was a doctor, too, and could see how serious the wound was even without his knowledge of the other world. He wanted to run in and watch the surgery, be there for Sherlock, but he wasn’t allowed past the waiting room. John couldn’t keep still, pacing around the room on unsteady legs, looking down at the blindingly white floor. His body had broken out into a cold sweat, and he was so anxious he felt like he could vomit into a nearby bin. He couldn’t bury Sherlock for real. If he died--then John would have no purpose in this world. None. He’d never find love again.

There was nothing he could do right now, and John hated that. Sherlock’s life was in other people’s hands. What he hated even more was that he hurt Sherlock again, even though it wasn’t on purpose. He really should have known Mary wouldn’t have gone away quietly, and he knew she had put the pieces together about him wanting to move back in with Sherlock. Why did she act so friendly towards Sherlock after she shot him in the other world, though? Was it because John went back to her. _Probably._ She must have figured she had nothing to worry about, if she got John back after attempting to murder his best friend. A part of John thought that, well, she was kind of right to think that. If he went back to her after committing that type of crime, then was she really that arrogant for thinking he would never leave her? Maybe she did know him better than he thought, after all, thinking back to when he felt angry over her presumptuous tone in her posthumous DVDs.

“Dr. Watson?”

John stopped pacing and saw a surgeon in the waiting room. “He pulled through,” he said, tone professional but pleased.

John almost collapsed from relief, legs shaking and tears of joy and exhaustion filling his eyes, not giving a bloody fuck about the surgeon or anyone else around him. “Can I see him?” he asked urgently.

“Yes, but he’s fallen unconscious, and might be a little out of it when he wakes up. We’re putting him on heavy stuff; unfortunately, he had flatlined, and CPR failed three times. It’s a miracle his heart started beating again. He seemed to come back to earth on his own.”

He felt sick, violent chills shooting through his frame. “I understand,” John said, trying to keep it together, mixed emotions swirling inside him.

“Oh, when he woke up, he said ‘Mary.’ Does he know a Mary?”

John’s blood ran cold. He knew she did it, but the thought of her name being on Sherlock’s tongue as soon as he opened his eyes. It happened last time, and John had been confused and amused by it. Now he understood. He didn’t answer the doctor’s question, but asked him what Sherlock’s room number was, and was walking down the hall before “334” fully left the doctor’s lips.

When John reached in the room and stepped inside, Sherlock was passed out, an oxygen tube up his nose, and a bright white bandage across his wound, the blankets pulled down to his waist. John grabbed one of the chairs up against the wall and put it next to the bed, sinking down into it and crying into his hands, relieved, anguished, and angry. She wouldn’t get away with this. Not this time. His head wasn’t up his fucking arse this time.

But, _thank Christ_ , Sherlock was alive. He defied death again, and John wondered how the hell he got so lucky to have a second chance at everything, including Sherlock surviving a bullet twice. John didn’t know how he did it, but Sherlock really never let him down. John sniffed, wiping his eyes, making himself breathe slowly to get his pulse under control. He went to sigh, but it turned into a yawn. Being woken up at 4:37 in the morning and nearly having a nervous breakdown because his best friend was almost murdered had worn him out, but he couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t leave Sherlock’s side, but he feared Mary would somehow know Sherlock pulled through, and would come back to finish the job. He didn’t know if he were just being paranoid, but he wouldn’t take any chances.

John listened to the heart monitor beat steadily, watching Sherlock’s bare chest slowly rise and fall, but his breathing was artificial, provided through a tube, and it didn’t fill him with any of the peace watching Sherlock sleep on the sofa did. John’s then remembered Sherlock’s back, and felt even sorrier for him. He hadn’t even had a chance to recover from when he was away. John placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s, rubbing his thumb against his skin.

“I’m so sorry,” John told him, voice scratchy from crying. “You didn’t deserve any of this. You didn’t deserve it last time, either.” He didn’t know how long he sat there, but he watched the sun come up, pale light pouring into the room and highlighting Sherlock’s curls, turning them chestnut brown.

John’s eyes burned from fatigue, but he startled into full alertness when he felt Sherlock’s hand twitch under his.

Sherlock’s eyes moved under his lids, a crinkle forming between his brow. His eyes cracked open, unfocused.

“Sherlock?” John’s heart sped up.

Sherlock grew alarmed, eyes growing wide. “John!” he gasped, his wild, drugged eyes finding John. “John,” he said gravely, “Mary, John!” The heart monitor began beeping faster, and somehow, Sherlock looked paler. “She’s--Mary!”

John was surprised; Sherlock hadn’t done this last time. He appeared to be frightened. “I know, I know,” John tried to soothe him, holding his hand. “It’s all right now--”

“No!” he insisted, eyes full of panic. “She’s dangerous!” he shouted hoarsely, even as his eyelids began to sag, the drugs winning the fight over his consciousness.

“Shhh,” John pushed his soft curls back from his forehead, scooting his chair closer, “Sherlock, I’m fine. You need to calm down”

“But--” he said weakly, the morphine beginning to take over again. He was far too weak to be awake right now.

“I’m here,” John stroked his warm forehead and curls. “You need to rest.”

Sherlock’s face was troubled, lips trembling. “She,” he croaked.

“She won’t hurt you anymore,” John told him with steel in his voice.

“John…” A tear gathered at the corner of his eye, and ran down the side of his face.

He had to swallow twice to keep his voice steady. “I know it hurts,” he whispered, caressing his hair. “I know. You need to sleep, Sherlock.”

John saw the moment the morphine clouded Sherlock’s light eyes. He tried to speak again, but his eyes slid closed against his will, and he was still again.

John sighed, putting his hand back on top of Sherlock’s. He was puzzled that Sherlock didn’t try to warn John of Mary last time, but he remembered the elaborate stunt Sherlock pulled when telling him--escaping his hospital bed and putting the bottle of Clair-de-lune on the table at Baker Street. He hadn’t told John directly. Perhaps it was because Sherlock knew the news would upset John, but this time, he wasn’t married to Mary; he wasn’t even with her. Maybe he didn’t think Mary was going to go after John last time precisely because they were married, and she wanted to keep her past a secret and continue their marriage. But, he said “Mary” last time, too. Was he frightened of her last time? Did he only hold it back because of John’s marriage?

There was so much John wanted to ask the other Sherlock, but he never could.

He must have gotten lost in his head for a good while again, because the next thing he knew, the door opened, and Mycroft stepped into the room.

It occurred to John that this was the first time he was seeing Mycroft in this timeline. He didn’t even know what to say. He took his hand off Sherlock’s, feeling a little awkward.

Mycroft’s face was grim, but his tone had its usual oily smugness. “Well, you’ve had a busy week, haven’t you, Dr. Watson?”

John was so fucking tired. “Mycroft, are you serious? I thought he was dead for two years, he almost died for real a few hours ago, and that’s all you have to say to me?”

Mycroft had the decency to look contrite. “Apologies,” he muttered, eyes flickering down for a moment. “How is he?”

“I haven’t talked to a doctor yet, but he barely made it. His heart had stopped beating.”

Mycroft was looking at Sherlock with an indecipherable expression. “I see,” he said quietly. “I’m surprised,” he turned to John, “with Moriarty and his web gone, and with no current case, I didn’t anticipate Sherlock being in any danger.”

John’s heart constricted with guilt. “I…” He had to be careful. “You might think I’m crazy, but I think I might have an idea who did this.”

Mycroft’s gaze turned sharp. “You do?”

He felt a little nervous, fearing he’d slip up. “It’s a hunch. I had a girlfriend up until a couple days ago. I broke up with her, and she seemed to think it was because I wanted to live with Sherlock instead of her. Maybe it was revenge.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You think your ex-girlfriend would commit murder?”

John opened his mouth to answer, but then remembered Mycroft knew exactly who Mary was. He knew about A.G.R.A. Why did he never tell Sherlock or John until it was too late? Why didn’t an ex-agent raise any red flags?

“John?” Mycroft asked.

John was staring at him, and damn it, he felt angry at Mycroft. He couldn’t even ask him any questions. There was no reason for him to know of Mary’s past yet. He bit the inside of his cheek, immensely frustrated. “I always thought she was hiding something from me,” he said stiffly. “Look, you have no other leads, right?”

“Correct.”

“Then consider Mary Morstan your lead.”

Mycroft’s face didn’t move, but John could sense something behind his eyes. He really wanted to confront him about his knowledge on A.G.R.A., but he suppressed his bubbling anger and set his eyes on Sherlock.

“I’ll look into it,” Mycroft said. “Do you think he will be all right?” he asked with feigned indifference.

John wished he would cut the crap. “I think so,” he said. “It was a serious wound. It--it really should have been fatal,” he said with difficulty, “so I imagine the recovery process will be long, but he should heal.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see. Well, I’ll take my leave.”

“You’re not even going to stay until he wakes up?” John asked, although he didn’t especially want Mycroft in the room. His feelings were so mixed--there was the Mary situation, but he remembered how genuinely torn up Mycroft was on the plane when Sherlock overdosed.

“I’m quite busy,” he said, “and I should inform our parents of what happened.” He took a step towards the door, but paused. “I’m glad you’ve moved back in with him. I trust you’ll oversee his recovery.”

“Of course,” John said.

Mycroft flashed him a small smile. “Good.” He left without another word.

John rubbed his eyes. Different timeline, same old Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock was out for the greater part of the day, eyes occasionally opening only to roll and close again, and John wasn’t sure he was even more than 20% awake at those times. Nurses came in to check on him a few times, and at one point the doctor came in to explain the anatomy of the bullet wound to John, but he knew all of that already. The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. He only got up to use the loo, and it wasn’t until he went to pull down his trousers that he realized he wasn’t in trousers at all--he was still in his pajamas. He sat there during the night thinking of when he ran up to Mary, beaming and telling her that Sherlock had made it. He felt like such a fool, now, but he supposed in that timeline, he would always be an idiot. Not that it mattered, he supposed, since this was apparently reality now. Or whatever. He didn’t fucking know.

There was a small grunt, and John startled out of his trance. God, he was tired, but too worked up and worried to sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock was gritting his teeth, a deep furrow in his brow, and his eyelashes were quivering.

“Sherlock?” John asked. “Sherlock, are you awake?”

Sherlock grunted again, and his eyes opened. They were glassy and dazed, but then his head turned and he squinted at John the harsh lines around his mouth betraying his pain.

“Hey,” John’s heart clenched, “how do you feel?” It was a stupid question to ask, but what else could he say?

“Hurts,” Sherlock croaked out, his hand sluggishly moving to his bandage.

“No, no, no,” John murmured, taking his hand and placing it back down by his side. “Don’t touch it, Sherlock.”

“Aches,” he said, eyes closing, a small tear rolling down his temple and into his hair.

John cursed under his breath. He knew how painful a bullet wound could be, but he never got shot in such a serious spot.

Sherlock lolled his head to the side away from John. “It has a heartbeat.”

“The wound?” John asked.

“Mmm,” he confirmed.

“It’s a serious wound,” John told him. “It’s normal to feel your pulse like that.”

“Dizzy,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You’re on morphine,” John said, “and a lot of it.”

“My brain is pudding.”

Sherlock talked out of his head last time, too, but John didn’t find it very funny, somehow. At least Sherlock wasn’t panicking like the last time he woke up. “You can’t have it lowered right now. You’re in too much pain.”

“Pain,” Sherlock nodded. He turned his head to face John again, eyes clenched shut. “It really hurts.”

“I know,” John said thickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Sherlock opened his eyes. “Not your fault.”

Wasn’t it, though? He didn’t think Sherlock was up for a serious conversation now, though, so he settled on saying, “Yeah, well, I’m still sorry. Mycroft was here earlier.”

Sherlock said “yuck” and curled his upper lip.

John smiled a little at that. “That was my reaction, too.”

He laughed weakly. “John.”

“Yeah?”

His bleary gaze looked John up and down. “Feels like lead.”

“What does?”

“My body.”

“It’s the morphine, Sherlock.”

“I feel like stone.” He grimaced. “Painful stone.”

John wanted to hold his hand again, but was more hesitant now that Sherlock was a little more aware. He licked his lips, hands clenching into fists. “You’ll be okay in time. I promise.”

Sherlock was quiet, and he reached up took the tube from his nose. “I can breathe,” he said.

“And thank Christ for that,” John sighed.

Sherlock blinked at him, a confused expression breaking through his pained features. “How long have I been here?”

John looked around the room and found a clock on the wall, and damn, the sun was already coming up. Did a whole day really pass? His stomach was empty to the point of nausea, and his mouth was dry from thirst. “A day. Twenty-five hours, to be exact.”

“You’ve not slept,” Sherlock accused in a lazy voice. “Or eaten. I can see it.”

“You can deduce even when you’re on morphine?”

“Of course,” he said indignantly, or it would have been indignant if his words weren’t slurred. “I’m a genius.”

John smirked. “That you are, Sherlock,” he said fondly.

“You should eat,” he said. “Go to the cafeteria.”

John really, really didn’t want to leave him. “But--”

“Go,” he insisted with a whine. “I don’t wanna wake up n’ find out you died of hunger.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but the statement made John feel odd. “Um, okay. I’ll be back.” He went as fast as he could, grabbing a muffin and water bottle, and was relieved to find Sherlock safe in his bed when he returned, out cold again.

John quickly ate his breakfast, relieved to have food in his stomach again. Afterwards, he leaned his head back in the chair, and let the sound of Sherlock’s soft snoring drag him into a much-needed rest.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock’s morphine levels were lowered by the nurses, only a little, but enough for him to be in pain, although his head was clearer, which he enjoyed. Still, his hands tightly held bunches of the hospital sheets as he tried to fight waves of pain.

“Distract me,” he commanded through clenched teeth. “It hurts. I don’t want to think about it.”

John tried not to let Sherlock see how sorry he felt for him. He sighed heavily, bracing himself. “Sherlock, can we talk about what happened?”

He stared at John, the only sound in the room his heavy breathing. “I suppose,” he said after a long pause.

He played with the fabric of his pajama pants (a shower and change of clothes would have been nice…). John distinctly recalled confessing his love to Sherlock while he was bleeding on the floor, and though it was unlikely, he wanted to know if his words had been heard. “What do you remember?”

Sherlock shut his eyes briefly, a haunted expression taking over his features. “I was sleeping,” he said softly. “I thought I’d heard something. I sat up, but the room was dark, except for the light coming in from the window. The open window told me something was very wrong,” he said darkly, and stopped to take a shaky breath.

“I should put your morphine back up--”

“No,” he shook his head, “I hate not being able to think. I barely remember the past two days.”

“Okay,” John reluctantly relented, but if Sherlock’s face grew any more pained, he would take matters into his own hands.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “Anyway, I got out of bed,” he went on in a small voice, “and…” His lower lip trembled imperceptibly.

John was reminded, with horror, that Sherlock was still suffering from PTSD from his time away. Last time this happened, it was several months after his return. John knew PTSD didn’t usually disappear within that time, but he must have felt significantly better, because even though Sherlock was good at hiding his emotions, John didn’t think he would have been able to hide _this_ from him in the other world. This was different. This was worse.

“It’s okay,” John said lowly, ignoring the sting in his eyes. “What happened next?” he asked gently.

“It was Mary,” he whispered, knuckles bright white from clenching the sheets. “I couldn’t see her well, but I recognized her voice.”

“What did she say?” he asked, a flame of anger burning in his abdomen.

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to glance at John. “‘You shouldn’t have come back.’ And…”

“Tell me,” John demanded, his fists shaking. “What else?”

“It’s not important.”

“Yes it bloody is!” he shouted, causing Sherlock to flinch. Fuck, he shouldn’t shout around a man experiencing shell shock.

Sherlock stared into the middle of the room. “She shot me. She said, ‘Thank John for this.’ That’s all I remember,” he admitted cautiously.

It was a smack to the face, a punch to the gut, and confirmed what he already thought. John’s mouth dropped open, his heartbeat in his ears. “I--” he stood up. “I need some air.” He fled from the room, but didn’t go far. He went outside of the room and collapsed against the wall, hand over his mouth. He wasn’t crying, but he felt so terrible that tears would have felt like a relief. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have broken up with her and not taken some kind of precaution? There it was, laid out in front of him; Mary shot Sherlock in both worlds because she despised him. She didn’t do any bullshit surgery. She didn’t even primarily do it to hide her past. She hated Sherlock. She wanted him gone, and now it was directly John’s fault.

“Why do I keep fucking up?” he asked himself, not paying any mind to the visitors and nurses passing by. Why was he such a fucking screw up?

John heard the door open and he whipped his head around. “Sherlock, no!” he ran over and grabbed his forearms. “Are you out of your bloody mind?! You can’t be out of bed yet!”

One of Sherlock’s hands was gripping the door handle, and the other was holding his chest, and his skin was clammy with sweat. “I wanted--you to come back,” he said breathlessly.

John led him back to the bed, practically dragging him, and forced him back down on the mattress. “Don’t do that again,” he said sternly, recalling when Sherlock left the hospital entirely and had to call an ambulance to Baker Street. John shook his head, hooking up the IV back to a fatigued Sherlock.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he gasped, jaw clenching in pain, fingers curling over his bandage. “Mary, I mean.” He pressed his lips together tightly, stifling a moan of pain.

John stared down at him, a hard lump in his throat. “I’m going to up your morphine.”

“I’m fine,” he protested weakly.

“No, you’re not. I hurt you _again_ ,” he said miserably, and reached over to the dial.

“‘Again’?” Sherlock asked in confusion. “John, don’t, please, I want to talk.”

John’s hand hovered in the air, and he took in Sherlock’s weak, exhausted face, exhausted just from leaving the bed. But, his light, pleading eyes stopped John.

John felt so trapped, but he didn’t want to cry in front of Sherlock again. This wasn’t supposed to be about him. “Please rest for me,” John said. “I’m really, really fucking worried about you, Sherlock. You’re in terrible pain--don’t deny it; I know you, and I’m a doctor. I saw the wound. I saw you lying on the floor,” his voice faltered. “I’m sorry I left. It’s just--I should have known Mary would do this.”

“You couldn’t have,” Sherlock said, watching him intensely.

But god, he could have.

“You’re not responsible for anything she’s done,” Sherlock said through a pained gasp. “That’s absurd.”

John sank into the chair, heart heavy. There was too much to say to even begin responding to that statement. “Maybe we should talk about this later,” he said tiredly.

Sherlock nodded slowly, still catching his breath. “Okay.”

They sat in heavy, uncomfortable silence, Sherlock’s body hurting, and John aching from within.

John crossed his arms over his chest, sighing, feeling stiff from spending so much time in the chair. His thoughts wouldn’t cease, drilling a hole in the center of his forehead. He was so consumed by the crippling guilt wrapping around his gut that he didn’t even notice when Sherlock fell back asleep, worn out from leaving the bed, until a nurse came in a few minutes later to bring in his lunch, and she and John both found him out cold. Sherlock’s face wasn’t at ease; he was frowning in pain even in his sleep.

“I’ll just leave this here,” she smiled at John, speaking softly and setting the tray down on the small table nearby.

“I think he needs more morphine,” John told her. “He looks like he’s in pain, and he hurt himself by getting out of bed,” he told her.

She gasped and immediately turned up the dial. “What was he thinking?” she asked.

“No idea,” he muttered, but was pleased when Sherlock’s features smoothed out when more morphine was pumped into his veins. Sherlock may not have liked it, but the Culverton case taught John that he disregarded his health to a dangerous degree, and damn it, even though he was failing horribly, John wanted to take better care of him for once in their bloody lives.

When the nurse left the room, John realized that Sherlock didn’t hear his tear-filled confession. He didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing self-loathing John lol


	8. Discussing the "Dreams"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends more time with Sherlock in the hospital, and wants his input on some things that happened in the other world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeeey folks. This chapter is a little longer than usual, but I'm not sure if that's a good thing? This feels like a ramble, but it was the best I could do.

John was awoken from a restless doze when the door opened, but after casting a weary glance at the clock, he saw that he hadn’t slept very long. He was prepared to be quite rude to whoever barged in, but some of the tension in his bones eased when he saw Lestrade.

“Holy hell,” Lestrade cursed quietly, staring at an unconscious Sherlock, “I can’t believe this. Mycroft called me and told me he got shot. How bad is it?”

“Very,” John said with a scratchy voice, and cleared his throat. He sat up in the chair, the muscles in his back stinging and aching. “He’s lucky the bullet didn’t damage any major organs, but he’d lost a lot of blood, and made things worse by trying to get out of bed yesterday. I told the nurses to up his morphine after that, and he’s been in and out ever since.”

Lestrade shook his head with a harsh sigh. “Stubborn bastard. Course he would make things worse for himself.”

“I was bloody furious with him,” John said. “He’s too weak to even sit up on his own right now, let alone get up and walk.” He swallowed. “His heart had stopped.”

Lestrade’s shoulders moved up and down with a long, sad sigh. His eyes moved from Sherlock’s form, and whatever he was about to say was prevented by a deep frown. “Jesus, John, you don’t look much better.”

John only smirked a little. “Yeah, well, I haven’t left the hospital.”

“I can tell. You should go home,” he said, walking to John and clapping him on the shoulder. “At least change out of your pajamas, for god’s sake.”

John looked at Sherlock, uneasy. “I don’t know if I should leave him.”

“Look at him,” Lestrade’s brow contorted in confusion, “he’s out cold.”

It was true; Sherlock showed no signs of waking up, pale lips parted, even with their talking.

John licked his lips, his mind conjuring up the image of Mary sneaking in and firing a bullet between Sherlock’s eyes to finish the job. There was no way he could ever forgive himself if Sherlock died because he wasn’t there. “His killer hasn’t been caught.”

“What, you’re worried they’ll come in and attack him?” Lestrade asked incredulously. “It’s kind of hard for someone to walk into a hospital with a gun, John.”

 _It wouldn’t be hard for her._ But, Lestrade was a cop, and a good one with that. John trusted him to keep Sherlock safe. “Stay with him?” John asked. “I’ll run home and shower as fast as I can.”

“Yeah, all right,” Lestrade nodded casually. “I have some free time on my hands, and I want to wait around a bit to see if he wakes up.”

John stood up, stretching, groaning at the tightness of his muscles. “Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You don’t have to rush,” Lestrade shrugged, “but all right.”

* * *

As anxious as he was to get back to the hospital, John couldn’t deny how good it felt to wash away the previous days’ sweat and grunge. The hot water was a blessing to his shoulders and back, and for a moment, John let himself stand under the stream with his eyes closed and just breathe. While drying himself in the bathroom, John caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, his eyes red from sleep deprivation, and stubble was all over his jaw. He didn’t have the time to shave, though, and quickly dressed into jeans and his most comfortable jumper, thinking that he would be at the hospital for awhile again, and stuffed his wallet and phone charger awkwardly into his pocket.

When he barreled down the stairs, the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat swung open. “John! Where have you and Sherlock been? I came back from my sister’s to an empty building.”

Damn. “Sherlock’s in the hospital, Mrs. Hudson. He was shot.” He wished he didn’t sound so wooden, but he was tired of having to tell people bad news about Sherlock’s health.

“What?!”

“Come on,” he sighed heavily, “I’m going back there now, and I’ll explain it all to you in the cab.”

* * *

When John returned to the room with a frazzled Mrs. Hudson, he was surprised to see Sherlock awake, but not surprised to see Lestrade recording him.

“Really?” John crossed his arms over his chest.

“John!” Sherlock smiled. “Hudders!”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson rushed to his side, grabbing one of his limp hands. “You must stop getting yourself into trouble, young man!”

“Oh, I’m fine as a...as a…” Sherlock struggled to find the word. “As a fine person,” he concluded lamely.

Lestrade snickered behind his phone.

All John could think of was how Mrs. Hudson wasn’t putting on a show at all; she really, truly cared about Sherlock. He remembered how it was she who dragged Sherlock out of the flat, handcuffed him, put him in the boot of her car, and delivered him to John. He wondered, with regret, when he would have started talking to Sherlock again if it hadn’t been for her. She watched Sherlock fall deeper and deeper into a pit, and decided to take action. What did John do? John planned to leave him forever.

He stood in silence, back against the wall, and couldn’t bring himself to be amused by Sherlock’s drugged, slurred ramblings to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He supposed this was better than last time, when Mary was visiting him and pretending she was innocent as a lamb. Janine wasn’t here this time, either. God, he’d forgotten about her, and the sex stories she sold to the papers (he was in no mood to ponder their validity, though, and he thought it didn’t really matter now, anyway). At least Sherlock didn’t have the chance to break that woman’s heart in this world. John remembered staring at the jewelry box, sick with shock, and then, with sympathy, because he actually liked Janine, and the thought of Sherlock proposing to _him_ , and it all being a lie? He wouldn’t ever move on from that.

Jesus. He knew Sherlock made the Work a priority, but did he really have to hurt someone in the process?

_“Sherlock, she loves you!”_

_“Yes. Like I said: human error.”_

John’s heart sank just thinking about it. This was the same Sherlock, wasn’t it? Was there even a point--?

“I should let you get some sleep,” Mrs. Hudson said, gently lowering Sherlock’s hand back onto the bed.

“I’m fine. I’m cool,” Sherlock slurred, blinking.

“You need rest,” John spoke. “You’ve got a hole in your chest.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I was there.”

John swallowed and winced. “Greg, turn that bloody thing off.”

“Jeez, all right,” he stopped recording. “I got enough material, anyway.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing,” Lestrade said innocently.

“Don’t show it to the Yard,” John sighed.

“I’m not. It’s for myself.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Oh, you’ll have to show me sometime, Detective Inspector. I’m sure it’ll be quite funny to look back on!”

John felt unreasonably annoyed with them, and saw that Sherlock’s eyelids were beginning to droop. “Look, I think he’s about to drop off again.” He waited a second, and when he received no protest from Sherlock, said, “the fact that he didn’t just deny it is a confirmation.”

“I’ll stop by again later,” Mrs. Hudson said in understanding. “When I do, want me to drop off some changes of clothes for you?”

“You don’t have to,” John said.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she smiled.

“I’ll head out too,” Lestrade reluctantly put his phone away. “I’ll check on him later in the week. Hopefully he’ll be more coherent by then, eh?”

John gave him a weak smile. “I hope so. Thanks for stopping by.” Once he was alone with Sherlock, he sighed in relief.

Sherlock was looking at him with half-closed eyes. “You wanted them to leave,” he said. “Why?”

“Sometimes, I don’t feel like being around people,” John said, sitting back into the stupid plastic chair.

Sherlock smiled. “Me, too.”

John chuckled a little. “I know. Go back to sleep, Sherlock.”

“You’re in new clothes,” Sherlock ignored him. “And you’re clean.”

“Did you notice I was dirty?”

“Obviously,” he murmured, eyes sliding closed on their own accord.

“Obviously,” John repeated fondly, settling back in the chair and listening to Sherlock’s breaths slow.

* * *

For the next couple of days, Sherlock’s condition remained the same; he would wake up long enough to eat about twice a day, and would then pass out for several hours straight. Sherlock wasn’t particularly hungry, and John could see why, but he made sure he ate at least a little bit of what was brought to him. John stayed by his side, only leaving to use the loo and grab food from the cafeteria. His was paranoid Mary would find a way to come in, and was relieved each time he came back to the room to find Sherlock safe.

John didn’t have much to do, though, aside from worry and spend time on the internet on his phone. With Sherlock dazed and drowsy, John found the courage to tell him, slowly, a bit about the other world.

“I…” John started one day. “I keep having dreams.”

“We all dream,” Sherlock said, his eyes closed, a lopsided smile on his face.

“I know. They’re vivid, though.”

“What’re they about?” Sherlock asked, turned his head and opening his eyes, which almost looked dark blue from how much his pupils were dilated.

John wondered where to begin. There was so much he was keeping a secret, and it was really starting to get to him. He figured he could start with where the last timeline diverged from this point in time. “Well...last night, I dreamt I was with Mary, even after she shot you. I forgave her.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

 _Why?_ Having Sherlock laid out in front of him, hooked up to IV with a large bandage over his chest, John really had no idea. “I...you told me to go back to her.” No, that did happen, but he shouldn’t blame Sherlock. “Well, you told me she saved you by calling the police.”

 _Wait a second._ John called the cops this time. Last time, when he tried, the operator told him an ambulance was already being sent to their location. That would have made sense if Mary called the ambulance, like Sherlock told him.

But Mary couldn’t have called the cops this time. Why did she last time, though? The fact that this bullet was in the exact same shot as the last one told John that her shot wasn’t surgery before; she must have intended to kill him with both shots. Therefore, she couldn’t have called the ambulance last time. Then who could have...John’s eyes widened. Magnussen was in the room. _Shit._ Did Magnussen call the police?

Actually, Sherlock said all he remembered was Mary saying a single sentence before he blacked out and fell to the floor. If he received the same wound last time, he must have fallen unconscious a few seconds after being shot, and couldn’t have possibly seen Mary call the cops.

“You lied,” John whispered.

“Hm?” Sherlock hummed.

“You...You _lied_. You told me Mary saved your life by calling for an ambulance. She didn’t. You made it up!”

Sherlock squinted. “Why’re you mad?”

Fuck. “I’m--not mad at you,” he lied. He was mad, but not at this Sherlock. Why did the other one lie to him? Why did he want John to believe Mary was anything but a killer? Why did Sherlock allow him to go back to her? Why did he encourage it by bringing them to his parents’ house? Why?!

“I don’t know why you did it,” John said, stunned, trying not to react. He was angry at himself, too, for not putting this together sooner. “I really don’t.”

Sherlock made a groan that sounded like _I dunno._ “It’s your dream,” he mumbled, a slight lisp on his tongue. “You’re silly.”

That wasn’t a word which was often used in Sherlock’s vocabulary. John didn’t smile, though. “You wanted me to stay married to Mary, and I wish I knew why,” he told Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked slowly. “Were you happy with her in your dream?”

“No,” he shook his head, “not at all.”

“Then I dunno either,” he declared, closing his eyes as if to say _so, there._

Did the other Sherlock think he was happy with Mary? John didn’t know what else to say. He looked at Sherlock, at the dark circles under his eyes, despite all of the deep sleep he had been getting, how white his skin was, and how his fringe was sticking to his forehead from sweat. He almost looked like he had the flu.

“That was the end of my dream,” John said, and the conversation ended for the day.

\--

Later, Sherlock needed to use the bathroom, and _will not use a bedpan, John!_

John braced himself, not because he didn’t want to help Sherlock, but he knew getting up and walking would cause Sherlock great pain, and unfortunately, he was right. He let Sherlock lean heavily on him as they hobbled across the room. John unconsciously murmuring encouragements as Sherlock gritted his teeth in pain. He knew that with an injury as serious as his, the short walk from the bed to the loo across the room could feel like walking through a desert.

John helped Sherlock back into bed, too, not letting his face show how upset his groans and gasps of pains were making him.

“I’m here,” John told him softly, guiding Sherlock down onto the mattress by his shoulders. “It’s all right.”

Sherlock’s eyes were brimming with tears, and his mouth was open, frozen in an aborted grunt of pain.

John was biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he started to taste blood. He wanted to throttle Mary. “Let’s get you hooked back up.”

Sherlock nodded weakly, in too much pain to put on a show of being contrary.

John allowed himself to put his head in his hands once Sherlock was passed out again.

\--

That night, after he returned from getting an energy bar from the vending machine down the hall, John’s eyes landed on a single red rose in a clear vase with a white card in front of it. John picked up the card, and his hand shook.

_Get well soon. -W_

John was tempted to crumple the card in his fist and bin the rose, but this wasn’t for him. He spent the night awake in fury.

* * *

“I had another dream,” John started a couple days later, not having the opportunity to talk yesterday from Mrs. Hudson paying them a visit.

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow curiously. He was still drowsy, but seemed to be the tiniest bit less out of his head. John figured that he might have his morphine dosage lowered tomorrow. “Was it about Mary again?” he asked, a touch of sourness in his voice.

“No. Not directly.” John scratched his growing stubble. He licked his lips.

Sherlock was staring at him expectantly.

“I had a baby with her.”

The bridge of Sherlock’s nose crinkled. “You don’t want to be a father.”

That stung. Badly. It stung because it had been true up until the moment Rosie was born, and well, maybe a little after that, too. He missed her now, but when he was drowning in his own guilt after Mary’s death, he just passed her off to anyone who would take her, as if she were a pet. Actually, a lot of people treated their pets better.

“I wasn’t there for her,” John admitted, eyes flickering down, feeling too ashamed to meet Sherlock’s drugged gaze. “In the dream,” he amended weakly. There was a lot to say about how heavily Mary’s death influenced his bad parenting, but he thought that saying Mary was killed in his dream, and having to talk about that, would be opening up a whole other can of worms, and he could only pack so much into one “dream.”

“She wasn’t my priority,” he said to the floor.

“You seem sad,” Sherlock said, lower lip pouting out.

John looked up at him. “It--just left me with a bad feeling. In the dream, she was cute. Really cute. Blonde hair, blue eyes, rosy cheeks--that was her name: Rosie.” He would forever be unhappy about the fact that she was named after Mary without even knowing.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, deducing through the cloud of morphine, eyes scanning John. “I think,” he spoke softly, “if you were to put your mind to being there for a baby, you would. You don’t give up on people you care for.”

It felt like Sherlock had blind faith in him, and it felt unearned. This Sherlock had no reason to doubt him, but the other did. John blinked hard, forcing the image of Sherlock on the ground of the morgue away.

“Maybe,” was all he said, and he wished he had Rosie sitting in his lap right now.

* * *

“N-no!”

John bolted upright in the chair, jumping to his feet.

But it was just Sherlock, lower lip trembling in his sleep, features scrunched up in distress. His chest heaved with a sharp contraction, his breathing turning into shallow gasps.

John felt a pang of sympathy, because he knew Sherlock had been having nightmares before any of this happened, and morphine could cause strange dreams in general.

Sherlock's legs twitched, mouth working wordlessly, struggling. He let out a quiet, sorrowful moan, looking very small and vulnerable in the hospital.

Although it was against his better judgment, John really didn’t want to let him suffer, not when his mental health was already suffering. He turned down the morphine a bit. 

John sat back down, rubbing his eyes. He was getting so sick of this hospital.

Gradually, Sherlock’s breathing slowed, and although he let out an occasional grunt or whine, the deep fold between his eyebrows smoothed out. But, his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” John said. “How do you feel?” Stupid question, once again, but oh well.

Sherlock swallowed, looking groggy. “Fantastic,” he said dryly.

“I’m asking honestly.”

“Hurts,” he admitted, not meeting John's eyes, “but my head feels clearer.”

“I just turned down your morphine,” John frowned. “Sorry. It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

Sherlock wouldn't look at him, absentmindedly pulling up the sheets past his navel.

He clearly remembered his dream and didn’t want to talk about it, so John didn’t ask. He had a pretty good guess, anyway--it was probably about Mary, or what was done to him in Eastern Europe. He wished Sherlock were comfortable enough to open up to him, though.

“How’s your back?” John asked, remembering the wounds. "With everything else, I forgot about it."

Sherlock looked up at him, a wry smile on his face. “Compared to this?” he pointed to his bandage. “Not an issue.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched upwards. “Hm, I imagine not. Still, as painful as before?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “though the wounds haven’t had much time to breathe lately, and my body feels uncomfortable from staying in one position this long, in general.”

“It's best to stay on your back, though.” It was nice to have Sherlock talking more like himself, even though it came at a price. “I know you’re in pain,” John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “but I think I’m going to talk to the nurses about keeping your morphine this low from now on--”

“Good,” Sherlock sounded relieved. “I’d rather have my mind clear like this. I was a blathering idiot.”

John snorted. “No, you weren’t. You were a little more--casual, I’d say.”

“Lestrade took a video of me,” his nose crinkled in disgust. “I remember it. I was too high to care at the moment, but now I do,” he said indignantly.

John laughed. “Don’t worry, Sherlock, he said he’s not going to show anyone.”

“He better not,” he grumbled. He sighed dramatically. “Well, anyway, how are you and your detailed dreams?”

John was surprised. “You have a hole in your chest, and you’re asking how I’m doing? How are _your_ dreams?”

The smallest wince passed over Sherlock’s face.

“Sorry,” John said immediately. “Sorry, I know you’re--”

“I’m not a delicate flower, John!” he snapped, fire in his eyes.

John sat back sheepishly, actually feeling a flush of heat on his face. He was going to apologize again, but stopped himself. A hurting Sherlock was a moody Sherlock, and under normal circumstances, he didn’t even like to be coddled. Nothing could stop John from wanting to hold and console him, but John had to respect his wishes. _He doesn’t want what you do,_ a sinister voice whispered in his head.

Sherlock stared at him, eyes sharp, and huffed. “They’re unpleasant,” he said stiffly. “I dream of being injured, and for the past several days, woke up so out of it, it was difficult to grasp what was real.”

John gulped. “I see.”

“I ask about you as a distraction,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to think about it. Well,” a touch of nervousness came into his voice, “that’s not the only reason, obviously. These dreams seem to be upsetting you.”

“I get it,” John said. “I do.” He thought of what to tell Sherlock next. “Well, I had an odd one tonight. It’s odd because it’s the opposite of what’s happened in real life.”

Some of the tension eased from the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, intrigued.

“I dreamt Mary jumped in front of a bullet to save you.”

Sherlock actually laughed out loud. “Why on earth would she do that?”

“I don’t know,” John shook his head, an exasperated smile on his face, because he might as well laugh at the madness. “But then, I got mad at you for her actions. And I didn’t want you near me.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I was married to Mary in this dream. Again.”

“You’re married to her a lot in your dreams,” Sherlock said, eyeing him. “But why would you be angry with me? Because if it weren’t for me, she would have lived?”

“I think I was going to file for a divorce before it happened, and felt guilty. I dunno, it’s fuzzy,” he lied.

“Your dreams are turning to rubbish.”

“You’re telling me.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But, would you forgive me, if that happened?”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. “You really think that’ll happen, John?”

“No, of course not. Hypothetically, if that were to happen, and I pushed you away, how would you react?”

Sherlock breathed deeply, mulling it over. “This is a strange line of conversation,” he said, “but I suppose, if you were legitimately upset over the death of your wife, I would try to comfort you, although I don’t think I would understand your anger in that situation.”

“Fair enough,” John said uncomfortably. “I’m just curious, because.” He cleared his throat. “Because I wouldn’t forgive myself in that situation.”

“I don’t understand why you’ve been so caught up in your dreams lately,” Sherlock said, brow furrowed, “even before I was put in the hospital.”

John tried not to look anxious with Sherlock’s piercing eyes on him. “I think it’s just stress. Ever since you came back, my life has been flipped upside down. Not that I don’t want you back, but it’s been hard to take everything in, I guess, and my mind is processing everything in sleep.”

“That makes sense,” Sherlock concluded, the suspicion in his gaze diminishing. His face turned slightly abashed. “I never meant to cause you so much stress.”

“God, Sherlock,” John sat forward, and put his hand on Sherlock’s knee through the blanket, “no, don’t be sorry, especially not for getting shot. It’s not your fault.” _It’s mine._ “Just because my brain is fucked up and prone to nightmares doesn’t mean I don’t want to be by your side and help you.”

Sherlock grinned, and the way his head was turned on the pillow made the curls around his ears push forward, looking like a dark brown, slightly frizzy halo. “Thank you, John.”

John wanted to lean forward and press a soft kiss to his lips, heart full. He took his hand off Sherlock’s knee. Hearing this Sherlock say, without the full context of what happened, that he would try to make John feel better if he pushed him away after Mary’s death, made him wonder what the fuck he ever did to deserve Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stretched his neck a bit, sighing. “For what it may be worth in your funny little brain, I can’t imagine a scenario in which I wouldn’t forgive you for something,” he said, eyes closing for a moment, and it looked like he was feeling a wave of pain, his right hand twitching.

“Even if I beat you?” John blurted out, and saying this was a sharp kick to his own heart.

Sherlock’s head whipped around, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

John turned his head away. _Fuck._ Why was he so impulsive? His fingers clawed into his jeans. “I...didn’t want to talk about this one,” he said stiffly, “but, I dreamt...You were high. Again. I thought you were going to hurt someone, so I tried to slap you to snap you out of it. But, I just...I just kept going,” his voice trembled. “I punched you, and you fell, and I kicked the fucking _shit_ out of you.” He felt his pulse rattle his bones. “You coughed up blood. Someone had to tell me to stop. It was because I was mad at you about Mary dying.”

There was a heavy, unbearable silence in the room.

John breathed hard out his nose, screwing his eyes shut, hands shaking, self-hatred slowly churning in his gut, feeling acidic. “Even if it never happened in reality,” he nearly whispered, “you know I have anger issues, and it’s not impossible for that to happen. It scared me, Sherlock.” He opened his eyes when large fingers curled around his wrist.

Sherlock’s face held a soft compassion which John felt he didn’t deserve. “I know you,” he rumbled. “I know who you are. I know your anger gets the better of you at times, and I know that you were always my moral compass. If you were to do that to me, then there would be a good reason for it.”

John removed his wrist from Sherlock’s hand, and wanted to scream. “That’s fucking bollocks, Sherlock. It was terrible--a terrible dream--and it was over fucking Mary, of all people.”

“As I said to you before, I don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up over a dream,” Sherlock said patiently, “but if this fantasy situation were to happen, I would forgive you.”

“Why?” John pressed.

“Because after what I’ve done to you, you’d have a right to hurt me!” he threw his hands in the air, growing irritated, an angry, embarrassed flush to his cheeks.

“ _What_? No, I wouldn’t!” Shit, was that what the other Sherlock thought?

“John,” Sherlock said, tone suddenly growing sharp, “drop it. This is ridiculous. Stop being pigheaded about something that never happened.”

John opened his mouth, but snapped it shut, teeth clacking. He couldn’t say anything more that would be considered appropriate or, fuck, sane for this timeline.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. He didn’t feel satisfied, but there was no way for him to apologize to the other Sherlock for what he did, and there was no way for this one to understand. He had two options: torture himself over it forever, or let it go. It would be difficult to erase his memories and guilt, but if he were still hung up on this, would he be able to be happy with Sherlock? Probably not. John decided that he should refrain from telling Sherlock about the other world for some time. He didn’t want to cause any further arguments, especially when Sherlock was in pain. “Sorry for angering you when you’re in pain, too,” he added.

Sherlock just shook his head. “We’re both on edge,” he said in a tone that indicated it was the end of that previous line of conversation. “I’m sick of this bloody bed. I want to go home.”

“I know you do,” John said sympathetically, patting him on the shoulder, feeling the need to give Sherlock comforting touches to replace the violent blows from before.

“Can I?” Sherlock asked him.

“Are you mad?” John laughed. “You can’t even sit up, Sherlock.”

“Not true.” He planted his hands on the mattress, and slowly, he sat up, biting his lower lip, stifling any sound of pain.

John stared blankly at him. “You really think you’ve convinced me?”

He collapsed with an _ugh._ “Come on, John,” he drawled impatiently. “You’re a doctor, and are certainly more competent than anyone here.”

“As soon as you’re done talking out of your head, you’re causing trouble,” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You need to recover, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, with morphine and lots of rest and hot soup,” he rolled his eyes. “You can do all of that for me.”

John smirked. “Hot soup?”

“Shut up. I’m ranting.”

John giggled, but made himself stop. “Sherlock, you have a very serious--”

“Yes, I know, I feel it,” he said petulantly. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.”

John sighed. “But Mary’s not caught yet.”

Sherlock froze. “You think she’ll come after me again?”

Christ, John didn’t mean to scare him. “Well, I don’t know, probably not, but I want to be careful. I told your brother to find her.”

“Oh,” Sherlock looked relieved, “then that’s settled. Pass me your phone.”

John did, puzzled.

Sherlock dialed a number, and John was able to hear the phone ring twice before it picked up.

“Hello, brother dear,” Sherlock had a cheesy smile. “Yes, I’m awake. What an idiotic question. Order your staff to keep an eye on Baker Street until you apprehend my would-be killer...Yes, it was Mary. John was right….I want to come home, that’s why.” He grimaced. “Well, convince the hospital to discharge me! John can take care of everything….” A smirk. “Glad you understand.” He hung up and gave the phone back to John.

“Well?” John asked.

“They haven’t found Mary yet, but Mycroft will ensure Baker Street’s security. He estimates I’ll be discharged within the next twenty-four hours.”

John knew this wasn’t a fight he could win. “You know you should stay here longer.”

“And I know you and I will be happier at home,” he insisted, an air of smugness to his voice.

“If you keep being annoying, I’ll up your morphine,” John warned.

“Oh, I’m so frightened,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. He shifted a little, and his breath hitched, hand instinctively flying to his wound.

“Careful,” John scolded.

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, and a more serious, unreadable expression took over his face.

John felt a little weirded out. “Yeah?”

“You’re not allowed to have any more girlfriends,” he declared, the oddness in his eyes still present. “Not if this happens,” he tacked on, but if it were for comedic effect, it failed.

John lowered his head in shame. “Trust me, Sherlock, if I could change things, I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I've written +35,000 words and I haven't really had too many moments where it's like "ooooooh they're close!!! They're going to get together soon!!!!" It was kind of put off by Sherlock being shot. But I just want to reassure you that I'm not one of those authors who writes 50,000 words of angst and doesn't make them kiss until, like, the last 1,000 words in the last chapter lol. They shall have time to be together! This is just a little more slow burn than I anticipated.


	9. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is discharged from the hospital, and John may take a step forward, but feels like he takes two steps back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. First of all, thank you all SO MUCH for getting this story to over 500 kudos!!! This is the most kudos any of my stories have had by the 9th chapter.  
> Sorry for taking a little longer than usual to update. World events have gotten me down, you know? Sometimes, it's hard to feel motivated. And I had to draw something for a small child, so that took up time.  
> One more thing: it's 3:10 in the morning as I'm publishing this and finishing the last 1,000-2,000 words of this chapter up lmao so I hope it's good!

John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock’s doctor came into the room the next afternoon with a completely agitated look on his face as he begrudgingly told Sherlock he could go home that night.

“You’re in no condition to go home,” he sighed, “but your brother gave me no choice. If you experience too much pain, you should come back here, Mr. Holmes.” He was glaring at Sherlock, and his eyes flickered over to John. “I trust that you’ll keep an eye on him, though, Dr. Watson.”

John opened his mouth to say he would, but Sherlock cut in. “Yes, I get it,” he rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been given this spiel. John’s given it to me many times during our friendship.”

John smirked. _True._

The doctor only looked more pissed off. “Just be careful,” he said sharply, and left the room with a disgruntled huff.

“Why must you piss off every health professional we encounter?” John asked.

“Why are people idiots?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly. “But, that’s not important. We get to go home tonight.”

“Yeah, but you do need to be careful,” John warned, Sherlock’s pale, thin face leaving him uneasy. He really shouldn’t have been leaving the hospital tonight, but John knew this wasn’t a battle he could win. If he were honest, he was sick of living in the hospital and looked forward to the two of them being back at Baker Street, and with Mycroft’s men watching the flat and searching for Mary, he would feel a little safer from her.

Sherlock looked uninterested. “Be a dear and give me your phone, John. I’ll be bored until I can leave.”

John grumbled, but gave Sherlock his phone, and ignoring the smallest tingle he felt down his spine at _dear._ It’s not like Sherlock meant it that way. John was just being a fucking tit.

* * *

A few hours later, Sherlock was discharged from the hospital, and Mycroft stepped into the hospital room with a disinterested raise of his eyebrow and a bag in his right hand.

“You’re welcome,” he said to Sherlock pointedly.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked, struggling to sit up, jaw clenching.

Mycroft looked him up and down. “Do you really expect to go home in _that_?”

Sherlock looked down at his hospital gown.

John had the humorous image of Sherlock walking down the street in the gown, and the wind blowing up and revealing his bare arse. John started laughing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “What’s so funny, John?”

“Are you wearing pants under that?” he asked, hiding his smirk behind his fist.

Sherlock fell silent.

“That’s why I said ‘you’re welcome’,” Mycroft walked forward and placed the bag on the edge of the bed, next to Sherlock’s feet. “Here’s a change of clothes.” Mycroft rolled his eyes when Sherlock and John widened their eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. When I went to Baker Street with my men to secure it, Mrs. Hudson shoved this into my hands.”

“Ah,” Sherlock and John said simultaneously.

“That explains it,” Sherlock said, and he almost seemed relieved, as if the idea of Mycroft actually caring about him were frightening.

“I have a car waiting for you,” Mycroft said. “Be outside in five minutes.”

John then helped Sherlock across the room to the loo, and when Sherlock came out a minute later, he was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

With how sickly he looked, John was reminded of Sherlock’s “Shezza” disguise.

Sherlock held the empty bag in his hand, and a sticky note in another.

“What’s that?” John asked, pushing back the memory of “Shezza.” _God, how ridiculous that was,_ he thought.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he grumbled. He looked down at it, “‘Sherlock, I figured you want something nice and comfy-cozy. Signed, Mrs. Hudson.' She drew a _heart_ , John!”

John laughed. “Sherlock, she cares for you.”

He didn’t say anything, sighing quietly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

The ride back to Baker Street was spent in silence, and the journey up the stairs to their flat was an unpleasant endeavor. John had his arm firmly around Sherlock’s waist, guiding him up the steps.

“Almost there,” he said.

“You don’t need to talk to me like I’m a child,” Sherlock snapped, but he sounded breathless, too.

John didn’t rise to the bait, nor did he focus on how much he enjoyed having his arm around Sherlock’s body. Now wasn’t the time. John wanted to concentrate on controlling Sherlock’s pain--and his temper. He could feel and hear Sherlock’s quick, labored breathing. He was in pain.

“When we get in,” John said as they were two steps away from the door, “you really need morphine.”

“No,” Sherlock said, putting his left leg on the next step. “I want to shower.”

John bit his lip as he supported Sherlock’s weight and moved up to the next step. He prepared himself for a mini argument. “You really think you should stand for that long?”

“Why not?”

“You can’t even walk up stairs by yourself.”

Now, they were right outside the door. Sherlock turned his face to shoot daggers at John. Their faces were close, and John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face when a haughty huff left his nose.

“I’m filthy, John,” he retorted. “I don’t exactly smell like a spring rose right now, and I know it. I’m not stupid.”

Well. He wasn’t exactly wrong, but John would have never brought it up. Besides, he thought less stress on Sherlock’s wound was more important. John let go out Sherlock and reached into his jeans pocket for the key to the flat. “You know I’m just looking out for you.”

“And you know I’m an adult capable of taking care of myself.”

John closed his eyes briefly. _No, you’re not. You nearly died in the sitting room when we were confronting Mary, and the paramedics had to keep you alive. You almost died from whatever the fuck you were taking, and then made it worse by being suffocated._ John opened his eyes. He had to stop thinking about this. He unlocked the door and went into the flat, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“Then just call me if you need anything,” he said in resignation. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. He took off his jacket and shoes. He was sure his face was showcasing all kinds of bloody emotions Sherlock wanted to dissect and deduce. But then, John heard slow steps towards their bathroom, and the click of the door shutting.

John rubbed his eyes. He felt beyond worn out since the night, or early morning, Sherlock got shot. It put them both in horrible moods. But, he really needed to stop getting caught up in the other timeline, at least in front of Sherlock. He had to, after how their conversation about his “dreams” went yesterday. Still, John couldn’t stop thinking of what Sherlock said: _Because after what I’ve done to you, you’d have a right to hurt me!_

He couldn’t bring up the conversation again without angering Sherlock, at least any time soon, but John wanted him to know that was utter fucking bullshit. There was an ache in his chest, and he suddenly missed the other Sherlock. He wanted to tell him so much.

“Stop being fucking stupid and stay in the present,” John berated himself under his breath. He shook his head. Stop thinking about it. He heard the sound of the shower running, and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t fall; he’d looked like he was about to collapse on the staircase. He wasn’t exactly as weak as the last time he went home after being shot, though. Running around London with a serious bullet wound had hindered his healing process by several months, but there was no way John would let anything like that happen this time. He looked out the window, down into the street, and wondered where Mary was. It puzzled John that she ran away immediately this time, but didn’t bother last time. Maybe, deep down, she knew Sherlock wouldn’t press charges. He didn’t know.

“John,” Sherlock called his name.

John immediately walked over to the bathroom door. “Yeah?” he asked through the door. He didn’t hear the water running anymore.

“I forgot to get a towel,” Sherlock said from inside, sounding a little embarrassed.

“I’ll be right there,” John said, and lightly jogged into Sherlock’s room where he kept his plush, posh towels in the corner, folded atop a chair, because _I can't dry myself with rough textures, John. I’m not a barbarian, like you._

John held the towel with one hand, and licked his lips when he put his other hand around the doorknob. “I’m coming in,” he warned Sherlock, and opened the door, hoping he didn’t see a naked Sherlock because, god, he didn’t know if he would be able to take that.

He was met with a humid cloud of steam, the room so warm that John’s chest started to feel kind of tight. Through the steam, he saw Sherlock’s hand reaching out from behind the curtain, but it was oddly low.

“Are you sitting down?” John asked as he handed the towel to him.

Sherlock’s hand and the towel disappeared behind the curtain. “Yes,” he said simply.

A pause. “Why?” he asked. He could faintly make out the sounds of the towel rubbing against Sherlock’s wet skin, and shit, it really was too hot in there.

It took a moment for Sherlock to answer. “I got tired.”

John knew he should have waited to take a bloody shower. “You need help?”

“I can dry myself,” he muttered.

“I meant getting up,” John sighed. “I’m going to have to change your wrapping, anyway, so you can’t get rid of me now.”

There was movement in the bathtub, and then the curtain opened. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the tub, towel tied around his waist, his back facing John, but looking at him from over his shoulder. His curls were flattened out, his soggy fringe hanging down in front of his eyes, and the hair at the back of his head reaching down his neck. He had his arm loosely curled around his side, hand over the wound.

“You’re in pain,” John pursed his lips. He looked at the cuts on Sherlock’s back, too. They were still there, but actually looked like they were starting to form scabs. They were probably uncomfortable, still, but at the back of Sherlock’s mind.

He was breathing heavily, eyes downcast, a light pink flush over his cheeks. It may have been hot in there, but John that wasn’t the cause of the blush. He needed to be sensitive here. Sherlock was clad only in a towel in front of him, hurting, pride diminished. “I can handle this,” he muttered, but his tone was defiant and sharp.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, extending his hand hesitantly, and then putting it on Sherlock’s damp shoulder.

It might have been a mistake, though, because Sherlock’s head snapped up, and his eyes were wide under the dark, wet hair.

John swallowed hard. Maybe clasping a nearly-naked man on the shoulder wasn’t exactly the smartest thing to do, but he thought that it would have been even more awkward for them if he took his hand off, though, and carried on. He needed to be blunt. He really didn’t want to deal with a tense atmosphere in the flat. Things were hard enough. He licked his lips again. “Listen. I spent years wishing you would have just let me help you for once.” There was only once when Sherlock actively asked--begged--for John’s help, and that was with the Culverton case. All of those years, all of those cases beforehand, and especially the during Fall, Sherlock kept John in the dark. He didn’t know why, to this day, why the walls he kept up were so resolute.

Sherlock grew tense beneath his hand, and he must have been thinking of the Fall. His eyes were piercing.

“I don’t think any less of you for needing help, or whatever rubbish is clogging that brain of yours.” He let out a deep exhale from his nose. “Come on,” he squeezed his shoulder, “it’s me, not some random nurse at the hospital. I’m…” He let go of Sherlock’s shoulder, and his heart clenched at the image before him of Sherlock looking terribly small and in obvious pain. “I still think, sometimes, that I’ll turn around and you’re not there, but helping you makes it better.”

Sherlock blinked a couple times. He swallowed audibly. “Where do you want to change the wrapping?” he asked.

John was glad his message got through, but had to admit to himself that the response was a little more lackluster than he’d anticipated. But, what did he expect? For Sherlock to get up and kiss him? “My kit’s in here,” he said, trying not to let disappointment cloud his voice. “You can sit on the toilet seat. Need a hand?”

Sherlock nodded mutely, holding out his hand. John grabbed his hand, pulling Sherlock up slowly. Sherlock clutched the towel with his other hand, biting his lower lip. It was a little odd to John, because he had no problem waltzing around in a sheet before, and he would have been stark naked in bloody Buckingham Palace he hadn’t caught the edge of his sheet when Mycroft stomped down on it.

Sherlock sat down with a _thump_ , breathing hard, clenching his teeth.

“I’ll be quick,” John told him, grabbing his kit, and then removing the soggy bandage. Then, he was face to face with the bullet wound. He’d dealt with this before, but staring at the hole in Sherlock’s chest still made him wildly uneasy. This time, though, he felt even angrier at Mary. “She’ll pay for this,” he said under his breath.

“Mary?” Sherlock asked. “I should expect so, with my brother looking for her.”

John covered up the wound. He didn’t speak of his mistakes from the other timeline. There was no point. He closed his kit and put it back in the medicine cabinet. “Come on,” he held out his hand.

Sherlock took it, and they shuffled into his room. He sat down on the bed, and he took a moment to catch his breath. He certainly looked less greasy than before, especially his hair, but if John didn’t know better, he would have thought Sherlock was recovering from a bad virus.

“I’m going to get your morphine. No arguments,” John said firmly. He turned and walked out of the room before Sherlock could muster a grumble at him. He retrieved the packet of morphine tablets given by the doctor from his jacket pocket. He popped out a couple tablets and filled up a glass of water for Sherlock. When John returned to the room, the towel was on the floor, and Sherlock was under the covers. He was sitting up, the duvet covering his chest, and he looked torn between fatigue and boredom. Of course.

John raised an eyebrow. “Did you just throw that off and get into bed?"

“Yes. Problem?”

“No,” he lied, hoping his face wouldn’t heat up. “Just, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in pajamas? Even just pants?”

“No,” he said casually.

Right. Okay. “Well, anyway,” John cleared his throat, “take these.” He set the glass down on the bedside table and put the tablets into Sherlock’s hand.

 _Don’t think about what’s under those covers,_ John scolded himself.

Sherlock put both tablets into his mouth and washed them down with one long gulp of water. The ends of his hair was starting to dry, and it was getting frizzy.

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up in a small smirk.

“What?” Sherlock asked, placing the glass on the table, looking tired.

“I’m just wondering what your hair will look like when it dries.”

Sherlock’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “I’m sure it’ll be very funny,” he said, testy.

“Oh, get over yourself,” John said playfully, and picked up the towel from the floor. “If you’re that concerned, dry it,” he tossed the towel.

Sherlock caught it with a glower. “If _you’re_ that concerned, then _you_ do it,” he threw the towel back. “My chest hurts.”

John’s own chest felt a little pang of pain at that admission. “Do you actually want me to?”

Sherlock turned his face away, shrugging one shoulder with a sniff. “It’s not important to me.”

“That’s not a ‘no.’” But, as the prospect of drying Sherlock’s hair became clearer in John’s mind, he wondered if it were really a good idea to touch a naked Sherlock. Helping him around the flat was one thing, but…

“I suppose it’s the least you can do,” Sherlock decided with a flush on his cheekbones he clearly pretended was not there. God, was the flush down on his chest, too?

John felt heat pour into his gut. He cleared his throat. “What?”

“For mocking me,” he stated with a lift of his chin, a failed attempt at being haughty, considering that his speech was distorted by a poorly muffled yawn.

“Yeah, fine,” John tried to play along, tried to sound annoyed, but he started to feel a little nervous about this. “Just--sit up a little bit more, if you can, and tilt your head forward.”

Sherlock did as he was told, and the blankets fell down to his lap, his bare lower back visible. He offered his damp, drooping mop to John.

John sat on the edge of his bed, his heart beating harder than what was appropriate, and put the soft towel into Sherlock’s hair, rubbing with both of his hands.

“Careful,” Sherlock scolded. “Don’t be such a brute.”

John didn’t respond, and made his movements gentler. _Does he like soft touches in other places?_ His thoughts were going into a dangerous place very quickly. He rubbed the towel through Sherlock’s thick hair, the only sounds in the room of their faint breathing. His hands moved in small circles, and he wanted to remove the towel and tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He’d wanted to do that for years. The tip of his thumb wound up brushing against some of Sherlock’s hair, and it felt ridiculously soft.

“Why is it,” he started, “that you somehow manage to keep your hair as soft as a lamb’s? You’re a grown man.” John figured a little stroke to Sherlock’s ego would do him some good right now.

“I have superb hair care routines,” Sherlock said from under the towel. “Although, there are no dead ends right now, which isn’t always the case. I got a haircut recently.”

“When?” John’s brow furrowed, puzzled.

“As soon as I came back,” he said. “My hair was down to my shoulders. It was dreadful.”

John didn’t want to think about Sherlock being on the run, not having time for basic hygiene. “I bet,” he said grimly. His hands were getting a little tired, and he wasn’t going to sit and make sure every follicle was dry, so John removed the towel. “There, is that good?” he asked, voice coming out thickly.

Sherlock’s hair was getting curly again, and it was wild. He looked up, and the blush on his cheeks was even deeper, and he was looking at John with a half-lidded gaze. His eyes were darker than usual, but John thought that might have been due to the room, itself, getting dark.

“Yes. Thanks,” Sherlock said lowly with a lazy blink.

John swallowed. “How’s your pain level?”

“Not terrible, which tells me I have minutes of consciousness left.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, probably.”

Sherlock’s bedroom door swung upon, startling both of them, John jumping to his feet, but it was only Mrs. Hudson with a box of bouquets in her hands.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” she smiled coyly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

John groaned internally. He supposed the sight of them sitting on the bed with Sherlock clearly naked under the sheets and duvet was compromising, although John wouldn’t have sex with Sherlock now even if he could out of fear of damaging his bullet wound.

“What have you got?” John asked.

“These are from Sherlock’s hospital room,” she explained, bending down and placing the box on the floor. “You’d forgotten them, but Mycroft had them delivered. He thought you’d want them binned, Sherlock, but that John would argue keeping them is the polite thing to do.”

John smirked a little at that, even though he normally detested how well Mycroft could read him--both of them, really.

“They’re only going to die in a week,” Sherlock complained expectantly.

“But people sent these to you out of kindness,” John countered. “Don’t you at least want to keep Mrs. Hudson’s?” he asked.

Sherlock lowered his eyes and sat back on the pillows, silent.

Mrs. Hudson was smiling. “You’re sweet, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a face and looked at the wall dramatically.

“Thank you for bringing this up,” John told her.

“Not a problem. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Sherlock said to the wall.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and left, and John heard her leave the flat and shut the door behind her.

When they were alone, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling with a moody sigh. “Some of those are from Yarders who’ve never pretended to feel anything but contempt for me. I don’t want them.”

That made John pause as he bent down to pick up the box. Well, that was unexpected. “But some of these are from people who do like you. Here,” he grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s bouquet, “there’s Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock gave an annoyed grunt. “Who else, hm? I hadn’t paid attention in the hospital.”

John looked through the box, “Lestrade’s is here, Molly’s…” His hand stopped when he saw the single red rose, and the card that had come with it was now tied to the stem. Damn. He’d forgotten about that.

Sherlock, of course, noticed the change in mood. “What is it?” he asked, looking at John inquisitively.

His breath instantly grew heavier, bubbles of anger brewing in his stomach. Should he lie and hide the rose? But, no, it wasn’t for him. That would have been terribly selfish. He cleared his throat and took out the rose. “Here,” he said dryly and tossed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it with one hand, his brow furrowed and the bridge of his nose scrunched up in confusion. When he read the note, his expression changed. His features smoothed out, mouth settling in a firm, straight line.

John’s shoulders slumped, and his heart dropped into his gut.

“Well, I suppose that’s the least she could do,” Sherlock said quietly, putting the rose on the bedside table, “after I saved her life.”

Was that how she survived? Sherlock showed up like a prince on a white horse and saved her? “Saved her?”

But then, it looked like a spark ignited in Sherlock’s eyes, and he stared at John with intensity. “I never told you she was alive.”

It took John a second, but then it clicked. He only knew Irene was alive from when she texted Sherlock after the Culverton case. He stood up, putting his hands in his pockets, not sure how to lie.

Sherlock was blinking quickly, struggling against the morphine trying to take over his system. “Before I got shot, she texted me, and you weren’t surprised that she was alive at all. How did I miss that?” he asked himself, looking down at the blankets for a moment. “I was compromised,” he muttered to himself.

 _Compromised?_ John had no time to ask what he meant.

“How did you know?” he grilled into John, his eyes alarmingly sharp for someone minutes away from succumbing to morphine.

John felt the need to clear his throat again, but thought that would make him more suspicious. “I didn’t,” he lied, his fingers tingling from the effort to keep them from twitching. “I just wasn’t surprised. She--people like that often get away from trouble somehow, you know? Just by looking at her, by being around her for that short amount of time, she seemed like the kind of person who could get out of anything. Like you,” he added after a short pause. _You’re a perfect match._

Sherlock’s eyes were darting around his face. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

 _Fuck._ “Why not?” he asked, feeling defensive, taking a step away from the stupid box of flowers. “How could I have known before you told me?”

“That’s what I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted in obvious frustration, and his voice was a little quieter now.

Was it bad that John wanted him to pass out and forget about this? _Fat chance that’ll happen._ “I don’t really know what you want me to say,” John said, palms sweating a little. “No one could have told me except you.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Sherlock mused through a yawn. “But, something tells me you’re lying.”

John shook his head, sighing in exasperation. “I mean, what do you want me to tell you? That you told me in an alternate universe and that I’m actually from the future?” His heartbeat was in his ears.

Sherlock’s lips broke into a grin. “Have you been watching that show with the man in the blue phone booth?”

John wanted to cry from relief. “Yes,” he nodded. “Yes, I’m actually the Doctor, Sherlock. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Sherlock chuckled a little. “I knew you were hiding something from me,” he teased, and then his laughter simmered down. “I don’t see any other explanation--not that one you just gave, but the former--so you’re off the hook,” he winked.

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” he tried to sound sarcastic, but his voice shook. He swallowed. “So, um, you saved her?”

Sherlock’s face grew impassive. “Yes.”

“Can I ask why? She hurt you.”

Sherlock snarled. “She did _not_.”

“Yes, she did,” John pointed at him, but realizing that the gesture was too aggressive, he put his hand back in his pocket, his ear turning red. “It’s okay to say so,” he said gently.

Sherlock stared at him, and then pulled the duvet up to his collarbone. “I think I’ll sleep now,” he said with a definitive tone.

 _No!_ “Sherlock,” John said sternly.

“Morphine, John,” he closed his eyes. “Morphine.” His tone was closed off.

John was so fucking tired of this bloody game. “No. Why help her if she hurt you? Why not block her number and keep receiving texts from her? I don't understand why you act like you despise her.”

“And I don’t understand why you’re not letting me sleep, doctor,” Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

John abruptly raised his fist in the air, and he was about to punch the fucking wall. _No, don’t get violent, don’t do this, calm down._ His fist shook as he jammed it back into his pocket. “Because I want to know,” he said hotly. “She’s just like you. You’d be quite the pair,” he spat.

“Perhaps that’s the reason,” Sherlock’s eyes shot open, and he glared at John with venom. For a man with a critical injury lying in bed, curled up in soft blankets, he looked quite intimidating.

John didn’t get it. “What?”

Sherlock sighed harshly, angrily. “If I tell you, will you leave me alone?”

That didn’t exactly make John feel good, but he agreed.

Narrowing his eyes with as much venom as he could muster in his current state, Sherlock said, “She’s my equal, yes. My intellectual match. Yes, she also used me. However, I knew there was sentiment behind her motives, as well. I saved her because it was the right thing to do. Isn’t that what you’re always going on about?”

John was sheepish, and wanted the floor to swallow him up.

“But, you’re obsessed with why I’m not with her,” he continued in a sharp, but quiet tone. He stopped talking for a moment, seeming to search for the right words. “You know the idea of yin-yang, yes? Two contrasting forces becoming a positive whole?”

John nodded dumbly.

“Maybe I’d prefer a _yang_ to my _yin_ ,” he finished with an uncomfortable frown, like he regretted saying it and opening up this much. “And we both prefer the same sex,” he added, an afterthought mumbled under his breath.

John was reeling. He didn’t even know where to start, although his mind was stuck on _He’s gay he’s gay he’s gay he’s gay._ But, things actually made a bit of sense. Some people didn’t actually like being around someone who was exactly like they were. Hold on. Sherlock obviously thought this through. “So you do want to be romantically involved with someone, just not someone exactly like you.”

Sherlock looked up as if John had insulted his mother, red as ever. “You promised you’d leave.”

A big, gaping hole filled John’s chest. “Right. Yeah.” He took his hands out of his pockets. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He was going to tell Sherlock to get some sleep, but humiliation stopped any more words from former on his tongue. He left the room, and went to bed with one thought on his mind: Sherlock did want someone--a man, too--just not him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I THINK, despite the note this chapter ended on, John might make a bit of a move next chapter. But that doesn't mean everything will become unicorns and rainbows lol


	10. Leap of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is compelled to make a move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYYYYYY thank you for 600 kudos!!!! That's the highest amount I've ever gotten on a WIP! I'm so happy :')  
> Sorry it took a little long to update, but I started school, and current events depress me, and it's difficult for me not to paint the colors of the American flag all over my body and run out into the streets screaming against the current administration.  
> SO yeah.  
> Anyway, uh, I've been excited for this chapter for some time, and I hope you don't hate me for it

John woke up the next morning with a heavy weight on his chest. He was already in a bad mood from his conversation with Sherlock, and the subsequent hurt and confusion from it, but he dreamt of Rosie. It was really just vague images in his head. He realized he was forgetting her face, and he would never have any pictures to refresh is memory. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He wasn’t really sure how to approach Sherlock this morning, but John knew he had to monitor him. Sherlock still should have been hooked up to an IV drip in a hospital bed and they both knew it.

John walked down the stairs, and it may have been stupid of him, but he couldn’t stop thinking that he had confirmation Sherlock was gay. He suspected it, at some points, such as the night of the cabbie case, but he really thought Irene was the one for Sherlock, and maybe she was his exception. She essentially said that Sherlock was her exception to John (she also implied Sherlock was _his_ exception, but she didn’t know about Sholto, although it was none of her business, anyway). But, what about Janine? Didn’t he have sex with her? John knew their relationship wasn’t real, but she went to join him for a bath! Didn’t she? He would never be able to ask this Sherlock.

When John went out into the kitchen, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting at the table, eating a bowl of porridge, only wearing a pair of pants. _Well, I guess we’re talking now._ “Oh, hello. Where’d you get that?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “She brought it to me in my room about twenty minutes ago, but I’m tired of lying in bed.”

“I understand.” He paused. “Any reason why you’re only wearing pants?”

“Putting on more clothes was too much effort,” he said through a mouthful of porridge. It came out casually, but John knew he was referring to the pain.

“Want me to get one of your dressing gowns?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

The formality was an unwelcome sign that Sherlock was still mad at him. “Did you take anything yet?”

“I’m going to after I eat.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

John busied himself by making toast and coffee for himself, and Sherlock didn’t say anything the entire rest of his meal, so he kept quiet, too. He supposed this was fair. He pressed Sherlock about his private life, and that wasn’t exactly appropriate, even if they were best friends for years.

 _But now you know he’s gay,_ his mind said with cynical glee. It had been bugging him for quite some time--well, since the start--but that didn’t mean he was right to push Sherlock last night, especially when he had just taken morphine.

After Sherlock was finished, he took his medication without protest, carefully made his way over to the sofa, flipped on the television, and proceeded to ignore John.

Fair enough.

* * *

They spent the rest of the day barely speaking to each other in sour moods. John couldn’t help but feel some self-pity. He always thought he and Sherlock fit together quite nicely, despite their misunderstandings. Was he not the _yang_ to his _yin_? He kept wondering if Sherlock ever dated men, too. Was he always like this? He did say he was married to his work, and John remembered Sherlock revealing his first “case” was with Carl Powers. Sherlock was a child at that point, so was he dedicated to detective work since then? Did he spend no time in his teenage or adult life concerned about romance or sex, having the spark of insatiable curiosity lit in his brain from such a young age?

That...would make sense, John thought. Maybe Sherlock knew who he would fancy, in theory, but never pursued anyone as a sacrifice to his work. Maybe it wasn’t that he had no interest in John, but refused to allow himself to have interest? But, god, was John being conceited by entertaining this line of thought? Maybe Sherlock just didn’t fancy him, plain and simple.

But, if he _did_ , then he wouldn’t have acted on any feelings because of his dedication to the cases. Wasn’t that what he said that night?

The words were etched into John’s brain long ago: _John, I think you should know I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any--_

He was _flattered_ , and stopped himself because of his bloody work. Or, was he just being polite? John almost laughed out loud at that. He also remembered how Sherlock bluntly told Molly her mouth looked too small because she removed her lipstick on the very first day they met. Perhaps Sherlock was more in line with social cues now, but back then? Not so much.

John rubbed his eyes. The shower stopped running, and he realized he would have to change Sherlock’s dressing. It was night already; they spent the whole day hanging around the flat without talking to each other (although, to be fair, Sherlock was dozing for a lot of the day, too). Still. What right cocks they were. What a right cock _he_ was, sitting around and coddling his aching heart all day.

John got up from his chair, stretching his aching back. How fucking long was he sitting there? He walked to the loo and knocked lightly on the door. “Sherlock, when you’re done, I’ve got to put fresh gauze on you.”

“Yes, in a minute,” he replied through the door.

John leaned against the wall, thinking. He didn’t want them to be uncomfortable around each other. There was enough serious business going on; their petty nonsense would have to wait for another day. Well, his petty nonsense would have to wait. He should apologize to Sherlock. He clearly felt embarrassed from last night, and maybe an admission of wrongdoing from John would ease the tension.

The door opened, steam rushing out. John entered and saw Sherlock sitting atop the toilet seat, wearing light blue pajama pants, but his chest bare, water droplets gathered around his collarbone. He was looking at John expectantly.

John grabbed his kit, and he changed Sherlock’s dressing in silence (he was pleased to see the wound healing as well as it could at this stage). But, after he put the kit away, he said, “Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock stood in the doorway between the loo and his bedroom, expression impassive.

John cleared his throat, skin feeling a little damp from the humidity of the room. “I want to apologize to you about last night,” he said, forcing himself to look Sherlock in the eye. “I pressed you for information that was none of my business, and while you have a bloody hole in your chest, at that. It really wasn’t on. If you want to keep all of that to yourself, that’s your right.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down, and a light pink dusted his cheeks. “Thank you,” he looked at John from under his lashes. He swallowed. “I suppose I’m at fault, too. Aren’t friends supposed to talk about these things with each other?”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but John thought that Sherlock’s blush was deepening down to his chest. “Well, usually, yes,” John conceded. “But, we’ve never exactly been normal friends, have we?” he joked.

Sherlock only frowned. “Because of me.”

“No,” John denied automatically, although it wasn’t entirely false. “You’re entitled to privacy.”

“Even so,” he folded his hands behind his back, appearing self-conscious, “I shouldn’t have kicked you out of my room last night after all you’ve done for me since I returned. It was childish of me.”

John shook his head. “Don’t be hard on yourself. It’s really not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be.”

He pressed his lips together. “If you say so.” He turned to go into his room, but stopped, looking back at John. “I threw away her rose, in case you were interested,” he told him, his voice above a whisper, but low enough to be little more than a rumble.

John resisted the urge to clear his throat, knowing it was a noticeable tic of his. “Why?”

He shrugged. “It seemed to bother you.”

John felt like he was a jealous lover, and his partner had to throw something away from an ex to satisfy him.

“Besides,” he lowered his gaze, “you weren’t wrong last night about how she acted towards me, in the end.”

He _knew_ Sherlock was hurt by her. “It really is okay to admit she hurt you,” John said gently. “Even if you two weren’t romantically involved, her betrayal must have stung. I thought it did at the time, but for the wrong reasons, apparently.” It was just on a human level, then, it was almost sadder.

Sherlock nodded silently, his features pulled down, ashamed.

“You weren’t weak for being hurt by her,” John asserted firmly, stepping closer to him.

“I’d prefer not to think about her.”

“Sorry,” he winced.

Sherlock just shook his head, and in that moment, he looked incredibly sad, standing there with fading wounds on his back, posture crumpled due to what was underneath the bandage on his chest, his frame still too thin, and his head hung down in shame.

John disliked the Woman even more. Sherlock trusted her, which was a rare occurrence, and she was more than willing to throw him under the bus for her own personal gain. Sherlock may have betrayed his trust with the Fall, but at least he had reasons, no matter how much John would have preferred to work together with him.

But, did John really have the right to be angry with her, when Sherlock trusted him much more and for much longer, and John hurt him even worse? _Not this time, though,_ he reminded himself.

“I know it’s your business, but I wish you would have told me about...well.” _Your sexuality._ “Your preferences so I didn’t make assumptions.”

Sherlock smiled a little. “Was saying girlfriends aren’t my area not enough for you?”

 _Damn._ “I guess not,” he coughed behind his fist.

Sherlock laughed through his nose, eyes soft, features smoothing out. “You’re hopeless.”

Such a statement shouldn’t have made John’s heart thump. “Uh, you want me to get your meds?” _Good job, John. He starts being nice, and you run away._

“If you would.”

John did, along with a glass of water, and brought them to Sherlock’s room like the previous night.

“How’s the pain, by the way?” John asked as he handed the glass to Sherlock.

Sherlock downed the tablets, holding up an index finger to tell John to wait, and gulped them down with the water. “If I move slowly or stay still, manageable,” he said once his mouth was free. “The pain increases when I try to move quickly or stand too long.”

“As I expected,” John placed the glass on the bedside table for him. “Your wound looks about as good as it can right now, from my end.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock said, fixing the duvet and sheets around him. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time in bed in my life,” he grumbled.

John smiled sympathetically. “Well, it’s necessary.”

Sherlock half-heartedly rolled his eyes while dramatically cocking his head to the side, causing his fringe to fall into his eyes. The move was completely silly, and quite a bit cute.

“I should leave you to it,” John said, not wanting to be caught staring at him with fondness. But, he felt _really_ fond of him tonight, especially after their conversation in the bathroom. Things felt normal between them again, and he felt more compassion for Sherlock, and perhaps more understanding, than he ever did. “Just, one more thing,” words began to leave his mouth without permission. “You--for what it’s worth, deserve the yang to your yin, as you put it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened by a fraction, tired, lazy movements freezing, and this was a bad idea, but John kept babbling. “I know you said romance isn’t your thing, but, I think it should be.” _Fuck._ “Because I know it can bring happiness, and I want you to be happy. Because I’m your friend.” His skin was on fire. “So. Just thought you should know,” he finished with an awkward nod.

Sherlock stared at him, blinking slowly, something in his cautious eyes reminding John of a fawn. He didn’t roll his eyes, or sigh dramatically, or even shoot down John like he did last time. “Thank you,” he mumbled, looking away and down at his lap, swallowing. “That’s kind of you to want for me.”

It reminded John of when Sherlock thanked him for wishing him a happy birthday, thanked him for a simple act of kindness. He didn’t need to thank John for deeming him worthy of love and happiness. “Right. Goodnight,” John said stiffly.

He left and went up to his bedroom as quickly as he could without running, grateful he showered before Sherlock. When he closed his bedroom door behind him, he put his burning face into his hands. That was embarrassing.

* * *

Although he feared he made things worse, John was pleased to see Sherlock in higher spirits the next day, at least as much as he could be in his condition. Sherlock initiated conversation, and there was a softness around the corners of his mouth. When John was sitting on the sofa, Sherlock sat down next to him, their thighs nearly close enough to touch, and he nearly slumped over onto John’s shoulder from the morphine.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, and turned his face the other way, dozing off almost instantly.

John was confused. He thought Sherlock would have been uncomfortable around him today, or at the very least, act like it didn’t happen. But he was acting as happy as he was before he got shot. Perhaps Sherlock was touched by John’s fumbling statement? When he had told Sherlock to pursue Irene, he got a completely different response, but now he knew why. Sherlock’s current mood could have been due to John no longer misunderstanding him, and saying he should be with anyone (a man. _Sherlock is gay,_ John’s mind repeated for the umpteenth time).

But, Sherlock was clever. John felt like he was revealing his own heart last night, and he must have picked up on that, right? It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock misinterpreted him, though, but John felt like he was pretty transparent last night. If Sherlock understood, then did he _like_ it?

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock mumbled, effectively scaring the shit out of John.

“Christ, I thought you were sleeping,” John crossed his arms over his chest, his heart beating too quickly over something so lame.

“Not really,” Sherlock turned his face towards John, light eyes glassy. He blinked. “Not entirely,” he corrected. “Anyway, I can sense how tense you are. Watching a drama on the telly?”

John completely forgot the television was on. “No,” he said simply.

“Then what is it?” Sherlock asked, sounding a little bored, eyes closing lazily. “Are you getting stir crazy? Lack of cases driving you mad? I’d be the same, if I weren’t half high all of the time.”

John laughed a little. “No, no, I’m okay.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

And the conversation was over for now.

* * *

It came to a head that night.

John was changing Sherlock’s bandage in the bathroom again, and while his hands were on Sherlock’s chest, he felt the vibration of his voice.

“I was thinking,” he was looking down at John thoughtfully.

“Hm?” John looked up at him, smoothing the gauze gently over his wound.

“With…” He swallowed. “With Moriarty’s attempt to disgrace me, you cared.”

“Of course.” John stood up, stomach twisting at the mention of the man who separated them and changed them forever. “I knew it wasn’t true--what he was trying to make people believe about you.”

“I didn’t know why you cared, if you remember,” he stood up carefully, wincing a little and placing his hand over his chest. “I didn’t know why you wanted me to be with the Woman, either.”

 _Oh boy._ John didn’t say anything, staring up with a raised eyebrow.

“But, I know that, too; you said it last night,” his eyebrow furrowed into a troubled crinkle.

“Yeah?” John’s face was hot against his will. He didn’t know where this was going.

Sherlock sighed, removing his hand from his chest and putting it down by his side, hands clenching, looking like he was struggling with his words. “I want to thank you.”

“Thank me?” John couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “For wanting you to be happy?”

Sherlock looked perplexed. “Well, yes,” he said as if it were obvious.

“Sherlock,” John’s hand grasped his bare shoulder without warning, “you know friends are supposed to want each other’s happiness? Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, his tone suggesting the question was ludicrous. His eyes were no longer confused, now serious and completely focused.

“Then it shouldn’t be any different for you,” John explained, and hating that he even had to explain this.

But the line of Sherlock’s mouth remained firm and puzzled. “It isn’t just that, though. I wanted to thank you for everything--since I came back. As you know, I underestimated how much I hurt you, and when you ran out of the restaurant the night I came back, I feared you wouldn’t forgive me.”

John remembered how he initially didn’t forgive Sherlock the first time with a sharp pang of regret in his chest. “It’s...it’s nothing.” His hand slid from Sherlock’s shoulder to his forearm, gripping it loosely, his hand apparently not ready to let go of him yet.

“It’s something,” Sherlock countered.

 _This is why he was nice today,_ John realized. He must have liked what John said last night. Was it because Sherlock never had a true friend before John, or something else? It wasn’t like this was the first time John was kind to him.

“I’m not doing anything special,” John insisted gently.

Sherlock’s lips twisted into an unhappy, bitter smile. “It is when you consider my poor track record of friendships.”

“I’m not like those arsehole people,” he said automatically, although a voice told him that he was actually much worse. _No brooding,_ he thought. He pictured Sherlock young and friendless--well, all he really had to picture the day they met, didn’t he?

“No, you’re not,” the bitter smile turned fond. “You’re John Watson,” he said, as if that were a wonderful thing, and the smile on his face brought small crinkles to the corners of his eyes.

John was aware of his pulse beating in his neck, and the firmness of Sherlock’s muscle underneath his palm. He brought his hand down by his side sheepishly. “And is that a good thing?” he gave a self-deprecating laugh. If he had to answer his own question, he’d say no.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his smile growing into a more pronounced V-shape. “You keep me right.”

John remembered when Sherlock told him the exact same thing at his wedding. His head was spinning. Last night, he told Sherlock he deserved romance to be happy, he responded by thanking John for his kindness, and now he said John kept him right? What the hell was going through Sherlock’s head? He was smiley all day and now this--and he was looking at John with--with _tenderness_. This had to mean something. They were standing close, within each other’s personal space, and John felt like his heart was trembling. Maybe--maybe there was something more than friendship in Sherlock’s eyes. His mind flashed back to when he was sobbing into his hand in the middle of the sitting room, and days after smacking the shit out of Sherlock, he had gotten up and embraced him. John remembered the warmth of his large palm cradling the back of his neck, cautiously placing his cheek on top of his head. John had hugged people in the past in a friendly manner--not too often, but he had never received a hug that tender from anyone who wasn’t romantic partner. What if he misread Sherlock all along?

John didn’t say anything, simply staring up at Sherlock, watching his soft smile turn a little puzzled, like he was silently asking _what is it?_

John’s eyes went down to his lips, which were a little redder than usual from the humid air of the bathroom after Sherlock’s shower. His eyes moved back to meet Sherlock’s, and the second he saw the wheels turn in his head, John pressed their lips together. His lips were warm, really warm, and soft, and--

Air. The lips were gone. _What?_

John’s eyes flew open, panic exploding in his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes were huge and frightened, mouth open, the the soft flush on his skin turning red hot. “W-what are you doing?” he croaked, voice cracking in alarm.

John, on the other hand, felt all of the blood rush out of his face. “I--I thought,” he said weakly. _Oh god, no._ He was _wrong_.

Sherlock’s lips trembled, and he blinked helplessly. “I’m not--” His words stopped dead in his throat.

John’s legs felt like pudding. _I’m not._ Sherlock didn’t finish his sentence, but it was a rejection.“I…” What could he say? _I thought you loved me too._ He couldn’t say that. Just thinking that made his vision dangerously blurry. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t--he couldn’t look at Sherlock’s shocked face any longer. There was John’s heart, on the floor between them, and Sherlock pulled away from it. Sherlock was practically looking at his exposed heart in horror. This was why John never said anything in the other world. He--what was he going to do?

Being a solider, and generally a hotheaded person, John’s instincts always told him to fight instead of take flight. But now, he found himself backing out of the bathroom on unsteady legs, and without a word, he was out of the flat quicker than his brain could process, his socked feet hitting the cold pavement. He was still in his jeans and jumper from earlier in the day, but it was still too cold to be outside without a jacket. He didn’t care. His legs were moving, but he had no idea where the fuck he was going. The faces of strangers blurred around him, the wind biting his skin. He stopped in front of a door, and noticed his legs took him to a pub, and fuck, that was good enough for him. But he didn’t go to the counter and order a drink--not yet.

Throat tight, he found the loo, entered one of the stalls, locked himself in, and with a harsh, shuddering intake of breath, cried bitterly into his hands, breaths coming out so harshly, they sounded like coughs. He wobbling legs made him sit down on the toilet, and there he was: alone, in the bathroom of a bloody pub, crying his eyes out. He couldn’t even berate himself for this action. There was no other was to react to this. He felt close to vomiting, not only from the devastation, but from how hard he was sobbing. His mind didn’t even pick up whether or not other people were in the adjacent stalls. He didn’t care. There was no one else in the world but him and Sherlock.

He was the biggest fucking moron on the planet. He saw what he wanted to see with Sherlock. He didn’t love John, not that way. He was just being a good friend, apparently. It was all there, but his stupid fucking heart wouldn’t listen to his head, and there was no going back now. His nightmare came true. Sherlock didn’t want him. _Sherlock pulled away from his kiss._ Even uninterested women let him down easier in the past.

John punched the door of the stall. Why the fuck was he here?! Why was he sent back in time?! Things were even _worse_ now. At least in the other world, John had Rosie, and hadn’t given his heart to Sherlock only to have it rejected. He wasn’t happy before, but his desires hadn’t completely been shot down, either. Why did he even hope? The only person who ever loved him was a cold-blooded killer (and he wasn’t even sure if Mary loved him); why would someone like Sherlock want him? It made no sense, and Sherlock was a man driven by logic. There was nothing appealing about John. He was a twat, cruel, stupid, a wounded soldier with permanent PTSD, had horrible anger issues, took advantage of people, and was nowhere near as attractive as Sherlock. He was hideous. He didn’t deserve anyone’s love, not after he treated, well, everyone, but especially Sherlock’s. He wasn’t as cruel to Sherlock in this world, but maybe this was god’s punishment for his sins. He believed in god, but never exactly believed in divine punishment until now, but fuck, it made sense. There was no other explanation for why John’s life was nothing but a constant cycle of misery.

John started to choke, and he gasped, forcing his breathing to slow down. He really didn’t want to vomit, even though a toilet was right there. His long, shaking inhales were loud in his ears. He put his hands down, and stared at the door of the stall with blurry vision, throat burning, and it felt like there was a gaping hole in his chest. He wanted to go back to the other world--at least there, his feelings were still secret.

He sat there on the toilet seat fully clothed, face wet and red and puffy, bile sloshing around in his stomach, skin broken out in goosebumps. What was he going to do? What _could_ he do? He...he was in a pub. He could get blindingly drunk and avoid dealing with his problems. That was what he always did, and there was no way he had the strength to do otherwise now. He had no idea what he would do after that--he definitely didn't want to go home--but fuck it. Fuck _everything._ Fuck his miserable excuse of a life.

He exited the stall and wiped his face with a paper towel, although his eyes were still wet, so he didn’t know how much good that did. The loo was completely empty, and he had no idea what time it was, and noticed he not only left his phone at home, but his wallet, too. He couldn’t even buy himself a fucking drink to get blackout drunk. Could he do _anything_ right?!

Where could he go to get alcohol for free? He could go to a friend’s house...He didn’t have many friends, though, did he? He--Lestrade. Lestrade drank. He knew where Lestrade’s house was. John left the pub in a daze, ignoring the patrons asking _You all right, mate?_

John walked briskly as he could, and he knew that he wasn’t far from Lestrade’s. He must have looked bonkers, walking down the street with red eyes, no jacket or shoes (in November, of all months), but he only cared about Sherlock’s opinion at this point, and he knew what that was. He didn’t know how much time it took him, but then he was knocking on Lestrade’s door, and thank Christ, he opened up.

Lestrade answered the door in a sweatshirt and pajama pants, uncharacteristically casual (what time was it, again?). Lestrade’s brow immediately furrowed in confusion. “John?” Then, he frowned. “Jesus, are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“I need to stay away from that bloody flat right now,” he said gruffly. “Do you have alcohol?”

It was a blunt question, and it showed on Lestrade’s face. “Uh, yeah, but--just come inside, okay? It’s bloody November, and you’re just wearing a jumper and,” he looked down, “where are your shoes? You know what? Never mind. Come in.”

John went into his house, and Lestrade guided him over to the black leather sofa, muttering for him to sit down, and yes, he’d give him a bloody drink. True to his word, Lestrade was handing John a drink a minute later.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, “but you do look like you need a drink. It’s whiskey.”

“It’ll do,” John muttered, and was grateful when the liquid left a hot trail down his throat. _Thank god for Greg._

“Are you gonna tell me what happened?” Lestrade asked awkwardly.

John was embarrassed when he felt tears reach his eyes, but this was far from the most embarrassing thing he’d done that night. Staring at the liquid in the glass, moving a little from his unsteady hand, he swallowed thickly. “I thought…” His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. _I thought I got a second chance to fix my life, but then I made it worse._ He could actually say a version of that. “When...When Sherlock came back.” It was difficult to keep his voice steady, and he couldn’t look anywhere but the glass. “I thought I was getting a second chance. I hadn’t told him before--that I,” his voice cracked. Even now, it was hard to say this to another person. “I missed my chance with him before. To be with him.” His face was burning with shame. “So, here he was, back from the fucking dead, surviving a bullet wound, too, and I didn’t want to waste any more time. But he doesn’t feel that way.” He raised the glass and swallowed the rest of the whiskey down. He tried not to let the tears spill. He was putting a lot on Lestrade’s plate right now.

“Oh,” Lestrade immediately turned sympathetic. Under normal circumstances, John hated being talked to like that, but he needed it now. “Oh,” he said again. “Fuck, John. I always suspected there was something between you two, but I thought it was on his part, too.”

That hurt.

“Sorry,” Lestrade winced, sitting down on a nearby armchair, putting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together in front of him. “What exactly happened? How do you know he’s not interested.”

John looked up at Lestrade with venom in his eyes. “I kissed him and he pulled away.”

Lestrade ducked his head in shame. “Oh. Yeah. I see.”

John looked down, too. He shouldn’t have been mad at Lestrade. “So, I left the flat immediately.”

“That’s why you have no coat or shoes.”

“Or phone or wallet,” he added, sniffing. “Give me another drink.”

Lestrade took the glass from his hands, sighing. “I don’t think getting drunk is the best thing for you--”

John gave him the best glare he could muster.

Lestrade’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Just one more,” he said.

John looked away. He had the right to get drunk, damn it. He had nothing left. No hope of love, not even his friendship with Sherlock anymore, because how could they be friends after this? They couldn’t. He wiped a tear on his sleeve. Things in the other world were strained, and their issues were completely unresolved, but at least they were friends. Fucked up friends, but friends. A part of him couldn’t help but think that even if he had admitted his feelings in the other timeline, at least he would have had Rosie.

As soon as John had the glass back in his hand, he started drinking, ignoring Lestrade telling him to take it easy.

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “I expect you don’t want to see Sherlock right now?”

“Brilliant, Greg,” John muttered.

“Figured. What will you do next time you see him? You can’t avoid him forever.”

“I really don’t know,” he said honestly, and gulped down the rest of the whiskey. He wanted more.

“Look,” Lestrade started in a low, friendly tone, obviously uncomfortable with how quickly John finished his drink, “it’s late, and you’re upset--rightly so.”

“What time is it?” John asked, looking up at him with puffy eyes.

“Quarter to midnight.”

Ah.

“So, I think it’s best if you crash here for the night,” Lestrade rubbed his jaw. “You can figure out what you’re going to do tomorrow, ’cause I don’t think you’re in a state to be thinking about what you’re going to do or not do with Sherlock.”

True. “Okay,” he nodded weakly. “Thanks. For all this.”

Lestrade nodded, too. “It’s not a problem.” He paused. “I am sorry about this, if that means anything.”

John couldn’t bring himself to smile. “Thanks.” He wasn’t drunk, and that was not okay.

Lestrade cleared his throat lightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right, well, I’ll give you a throw blanket and leave you for now, all right? Don’t go wandering out in London without any shoes again while I’m sleeping.”

“I won’t,” John said, wishing he could find some humor in the ridiculous situation. The pain was coming back now. He was numb while talking to Lestrade, but his thoughts were catching back up to him.

Two minutes later, John was alone in Lestrade’s small sitting room, lying on his back, clenching the blanket in his fists, staring at the ceiling as tears pooled and trickled from his eyes. _Sherlock._ He knew a man weren’t supposed to act like this, like his life was over because of a broken heart, but John was so _tired_. There was no point in trying to act like man--or whatever the bloody fuck that meant--when he so desperately wanted nothing more than to be able to love, fully, the man who his life depended on. But it would never be.

John wondered for the millionth time why he was sent back into this timeline, but he supposed the reason didn’t really matter. He was stuck. He made his life worse. He cursed himself again for thinking that someone as amazing as Sherlock would want a disgusting arsehole like him. He deserved Mary, didn’t he? He deserved the misery she inflicted upon him, and not the happiness Sherlock provided. He didn’t even want to go back to the other timeline, in a way. He wanted to cease to exist. He wished he’d never been birthed into this world. He wasn't going to do anything to himself--he was even too mentally tired for that--but he wanted everything to _please, god,_ stop _._

He rolled over on his side, facing the back of the sofa, limbs trembling, throat tight. What was he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'LL MAKE IT BETTER I PROMISE LET ME EXPLAIN MYSELF IN THE NEXT CHAPTER


	11. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes John back home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. I said in the last update that it's hard to write sometimes due to stress over current events, and this week was even worse, if you've kept up with US news. Sorry if this comes off as glum, but I just hope you're all doing okay.  
> Anyway, on a lighter note, I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter so much <3

John was awoken by the sound of voices. He reluctantly opened his eyes, which were aching from crying and lack of sleep. He didn’t know how long he slept, but knew it couldn’t have been more than a couple hours. In a way, it felt like he hadn’t slept at all. There was no moment of grogginess where he wondered what happened. Sherlock pulling away from him was at the center of his thoughts, the frightened, light eyes burned into John’s memory. He sat up, rubbing his eye with one knuckle, and saw Lestrade standing at his front door.

John groaned.

Mycroft was outside.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft looked at John.

John only stared back at him. He didn’t know what to say. Mycroft was one of the last people John wanted to see; the only person he wanted to stay away from more was Sherlock.

Lestrade looked at John from over his shoulder, eyes sympathetic, and he looked tired, too. What time was it?

“Come with me, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said from the doorway.

“Like bloody hell I will,” he muttered, intending to close his eyes and try to go back to sleep, away from this cruel world.

“You can come in,” Lestrade said awkwardly to Mycroft.

Mycroft’s stupid posh shoes clicked on the hardwood floor of Lestrade’s sitting room. “John,” he called, which was a little unusual for Mr. Proper Fucker.

John figured it wasn’t fair to be angry at Mycroft, but it was easy to take everything out on someone. “What?” he snapped, sitting up, Lestrade’s blanket falling to his lap. “I’m not going to ask how you knew I’m here, but do me a favor and fuck off.”

Mycroft’s mouth was caught between trying to look impassive and concealing a scowl. “You need to go back to my brother. Your ex-girlfriend is on the loose, and I need to keep you two as safe as possible. Sherlock is now in a flat with an elderly woman, recovering from a wound that should have been fatal. I don’t know what happened between you two, although I can take a good guess,” his eyes scanned John’s face, uncannily similar to the way Sherlock did it, “but whatever’s upsetting you will be useless if you or my brother wind up dead,” he said sharply.

John felt shame pour into his chest. Fuck. He had completely forgotten about Mary. He felt horrible--he was exhausted, heartbroken, and hopeless, but he would never forgive himself if something happened to Sherlock while he was gone. What was John going to do, stay at Lestrade’s forever? He wanted a little more time to himself, to at least try to get his thoughts together, but there was no rational reason he could have protested Mycroft’s demand. _I can’t see him right now, Mycroft. Yes, I know he might be in danger without me, but he broke my sodding heart._ That was nonsense. Besides, Mycroft mentioned the possibility of Mary tracking _him_ down and killing him, and he hadn’t even thought of that. Not that he was very concerned, though. He couldn’t bring himself to be concerned.

But Sherlock could have been in trouble. John did _not_ want to see him, but it wasn’t about what he wanted. John would take being miserable around Sherlock than being miserable around his corpse.

So John said nothing, getting off the sofa slowly, feeling like a scolded schoolboy. He looked down at his socked feet. He just made things worse and worse for everyone around him. “Okay,” he said to the floor.

There was a pause, perhaps an indication of Mycroft’s surprise from his compliance. “Come with me, then,” Mycroft said.

John nodded. “Thanks, Greg,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed. “No problem, John. I hope things work out. You can come back here anytime.”

John silently followed Mycroft to the black car waiting by the pavement, climbing inside. He was back to feeling numb (emotionally, at least; stepping outside made his feet cold).

Mycroft sat across from him, staring intensely. “I won’t ask,” he said, “but I expected better of you, Doctor Watson.”

John couldn’t retort. He just stared out the window. In any other scenario, he would have decked Mycroft right in the nose, but he was right. Christ, what had he been thinking? Even so, John was still dreading seeing Sherlock. It was going to be horrible, he knew, but he would have to see him again at some point no matter what. Maybe they could arrange something. Maybe they could agree that John would live with him until Mary was caught and Sherlock recovered, and then he would move out. They would go their separate ways and would never have to deal with the consequences of John’s disgustingly naive heart.

But maybe Mycroft actually felt a hint of remorse, because he said, “Whatever you did--or he did, I can assure you, it can be fixed.”

“How do you know that?” John mumbled.

Mycroft inhaled. “Because I know Sherlock finds your presence vital in his life.”

But that only upset John more, and there was no way in hell he was going to cry in front of Mycroft, so he shut his mouth.

The car pulled up to Baker Street way too soon, and Mycroft handed John a key. “You left without anything in your pockets, yes? Here.”

John took the key, nodding curtly, and left the car without a word. He stood in front of the door, feet on the cold pavement, the November chill biting through his jumper, and unlocked the door. He stuffed the key into his jeans pocket, and entered the building. It was dark and quiet. He slowly ascended the stairs, opened the door, and saw their empty sitting room. The clock on the cable box, though, revealed it was 3:30 in the morning. No wonder his body felt like shit. He did feel extra sorry for Lestrade, though. The poor bloke probably had work in a few hours.

As much as John wanted to crawl straight into bed and never come out, a nagging voice in his head told him to take a peek into Sherlock’s room just to make sure he was okay. He had no idea if Sherlock were asleep--until he heard heavy, uncoordinated footsteps.

The light switched on, revealing Sherlock. He held his hand where his wound laid under his T-shirt. His skin looked shiny and clammy--paler than it usual, all things considered. His eyes were huge, manic, bloodshot, and his hair was a mess. His mouth dropped open. “John! John,” he stumbled towards him, “look at that! You’re back.”

Not only was this not the response John was expecting, but it was unnerving. “Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat. There was something about the look on Sherlock’s face that was familiar.

“I didn’t think you’d come back--or be back so soon,” Sherlock said quickly, and the hand down by his side picked at the fabric of his pajama pants. He was breathing out of his mouth, eyes still as wide as ever, “But I hurt you. Why are you back?” he demanded.

John was upset, yes, but growing increasingly concerned. What was wrong with Sherlock? “I can’t leave when you’re like this. You’re holding yourself. Does it hurt?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he insisted loudly, almost shouting. His mouth twitched. “I tried to figure it out. But I can’t. Why can’t I do _this_?” his voice cracked suddenly, and upon hearing himself, he shook his head roughly.

John was stunned. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock began pacing around the room, but he was limping, hissing in pain and holding himself tighter, muttering _I can’t I can’t I can’t_ under his breath.

John had no idea what to do about his emotional state, but he saw that Sherlock was clearly putting stress on his wound. Fighting past the lump in his throat, he approached Sherlock, reaching out his hands to stop his pacing.

“Don’t!” he shouted, spinning around, teeth bared.

John’s jaw almost dropped. He didn’t listen and grabbed Sherlock hard, holding his biceps. “Stop! What are you doing? You’re obviously in pain.” It hurt _John_ to touch him, but his gut instinct told him something was wrong, something worse than an emotional breakdown.

Sherlock’s stared down at him, his eyes looking utterly mad, and his breathing was ever faster now.

That was when John got a really good look at his eyes. The pupils were dilated--unnaturally so in the bright overhead light of their sitting room. John’s head snapped down to Sherlock’s arm, turned it over roughly, and saw the indication of a fresh injection site on the underside of his arm. Ice dropping into his stomach, John abruptly let go of him in shock. “You didn’t--!”

That broke Sherlock, causing him to grab John’s arms, this time, and drop to his knees. He was staring up at John like he was prepared to get yelled at. “John, let me explain,” he pleaded, voice shaking. “I had to, you see? I _had_ to.” He was definitely high.

And John was definitely angry. He knelt down and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders roughly. “How could you do this?” he whispered harshly. “Hm? How?!” his voice raised to a yell. John could just _shake_ him right now. “You were nearly fucking dying to begin with! What inspired you in that massive fucking brain of yours to put your heart at more risk? Need I remind you that you _flatlined_ less than two weeks ago?!”

Sherlock’s lips worked wordlessly. He gulped audibly. “I wanted to figure it out,” he choked out. “It always helped me figure things out--”

“Bullshit!” John let go of him again, nearly sending Sherlock to the ground. He was so angry--he was so fucking angry--he could smack--

John immediately stood up, placing a hand over his mouth. _Oh god._ No. He couldn’t do that. Not ever, _ever_ again. This was bad. The last time he knocked the shit out of a high Sherlock was flashing before his eyes. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry!” Sherlock rose to his feet, stumbling, hand flying to his chest, a yelp of pain flying past his lips before he could stop it. He gritted his teeth and groaned, posture curling as he held his chest.

John was shaking with anger. But he needed to make sure Sherlock didn’t take a bloody heart attack. “Come on,” he commanded gruffly, grabbing his hand, “you’re going back to bed, and you’re not moving until I say so. Got it?” His knees were shaking.

“John, I’m sorry,” his voice broke, white as a ghost, mouth set in such a deep frown, it almost looked painful.

John fought past his anger and practically dragged Sherlock into his room, forcing him to lie down on the bed. It took effort not to push him down on the bed. “Where did you even get it? It was cocaine, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded, his movements jerky. “I had some hidden,” he admitted shamefully, picking at the fabric of his pajama pants again.

That hurt to know. John was so overwhelmed, but the doctor side of him took over. “You’re going to lie there so you don’t put more pressure on your body until the high is over. You’re lucky I’m not shoving you into a fucking ambulance right now, but if you get worse, I swear to god, I will. When’d you take it?”

“About twenty-five minutes ago,” Sherlock wiped his jaw furiously, gestures completely uncoordinated. “I tried to do without it, but I couldn’t.” His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he looked up at John helplessly. He stared at John silently for a long moment, but his eyes were flickering. John wondered if he were spacing out, or if his brain were going faster than Sherlock could keep up with. “You cried,” he started speaking softly, quickly, “I see it on your face. It’s been hours, but you cried. You cried because of me, because of what I did. You ran out of the flat immediately and went--where? A pub,” he concluded almost immediately, “but you left your wallet, so you searched for free alcohol.” He sucked in a breath, having said all of that in a single go. He was deducing faster than normal, and for once, John wasn’t impressed. “You went to seek comfort from a friend, so you went to Lestrade’s and slept on his--chair? No, sofa, until you left--” His speech was cut off abruptly and a flash of anger appeared in his eyes. “Mycroft. He got you and brought you here.”

“And it’s a bloody good thing he did!” John yelled. “I should call him up right now and tell him his baby brother got high off his arse with a sodding hole through his flesh!”

That shut Sherlock up. He swallowed.. “But that doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, looking all over John’s face again, “I made you cry. I couldn’t do it and that made you upset.” The frenzied rhythm to his speech stopped, and he pulled in a suspiciously shaky breath, brow furrowing, looking guilty. “John, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything,” his face crumpled. “I’m making everything worse and I’m making you angrier and I don’t know how to stop. My mind,” he put his hands on his head, “it _hurts_. It feels like a train going out of control, on the brink of crashing, and I thought the drugs would stop it--”

“You _know_ better,” John felt his eyes grow wet with tears. Why did Sherlock treat his body so badly? Why did he always do this?

“What are you _doing_ to me, John?” whimpered, eyes squeezing shut, hands balling into fists, clutching at his hair. “I can’t do this, so that’s why I used.” He was talking quickly again, and his chest was contracting. His breathing was so quick and sharp that it sounded like he was about to take an actual panic attack.

John knew a panic attack while high with a hole in his chest would put Sherlock in a much worse state. He still wanted to run away from Sherlock and hide, but he sat down on the edge of the bed and grasped Sherlock’s wrists, prying them away from his head. “Sherlock, you need to breathe.” His own voice didn’t sound very comforting--all scratchy and thick with bubbling anger beneath the surface--but he was calm compared to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he grabbed John’s face, thumbs on his cheeks. “You don’t get it,” he insisted forcefully, his eyes invading John’s very soul, drugged and alert and in despair. “I want you to do that,” said emphatically, almost a growl, but how his eyes shone took any venom out of his words. “I want you to kiss me.” His lips shook and he snapped his mouth shut, jaw trembling. “But I’m _afraid_ , John,” he admitted, reminiscent of the night in front of the fireplace at Baskerville, only with terrifying rawness. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he dropped his hands and brought them to his own face, breaking down into bitter tears. “I want to stop being afraid,” he wept into his hands, anguished whimpers growing into harsh sobs.

John’s head was spinning violently. There was no way to feel any joy when Sherlock was here, high and pale and sobbing loudly. Why did everything have to happen the wrong way for them? “Sherlock,” John took his hands, and realized he was crying pretty hard, too, albeit silently. He squeezed his hands. “Please look at me,” he begged. “Try to calm down, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes and lips swollen and cheeks bright red and shining from tears. John didn’t think he ever saw Sherlock quite like this, and it was one of the most heartbreaking things he’d ever witnessed. “Please stop crying,” John pleaded. “I don’t want to have this conversation when you’re high--”

Sherlock’s eyes widened again. “You think I’m lying?” his voice grew high on the last word. “Reasonable, but please believe me--”

“No,” John shook his head, sniffing, blinking away more tears. His heart was a jackhammer in his chest, rattling his ribs. He was shaking. “I just want you to be all there when we talk.”

Sherlock was still breathing out of his mouth, but a little slower, now. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

It was such an innocent statement that another tear blurred the vision in John’s left eye. His mind was a bloody mess, and everything was happening so quickly, but he believed this to be true. He didn’t know exactly what was going through Sherlock’s head, but as he just said, he wanted to hear the truth from a sober Sherlock. _But I’m_ afraid _, John._ Afraid of what? Him? He needed to know, but not right this second. He needed to get Sherlock to stop crying.

“I know,” his voice shook. “I know that now. What...what do you want me to do for you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked quickly, causing more tears to fall, and his frown deepened. “I think--I want--you to hug me?” he asked hesitantly, sounding completely unsure.

“Do you?” John asked.

“I’m afraid to want that.”

John was reminded once again, perhaps now more than ever, that a look into the depth of Sherlock’s heart was a shockingly intense experience. As much as Sherlock crushed his heart just a few hours ago, John felt incredibly sorry for him, especially if this were a misunderstanding. Was it? _I want you to kiss me,_ he had cried. That was a rather plain statement, wasn’t it? But John wouldn’t try that again right now. At the same time, though, he asked in a small voice, “But, I know we said we’d talk later, but just to be clear,” a furious blush bloomed all over his face, “when you pulled back--were you disgusted by me? Or no?”

For a moment, the tears stopped, and Sherlock looked gobsmacked. “What? No! No, I’m just,” but then the tears came back with frightening speed, “I’m just an _idiot._ ” He grabbed and pulled at his hair again.

“Hey!” John grabbed his hands, “Stop that, Sherlock.”

“I’m _pathetic_ , an arsehole,” he was back to babbling fast, tears regularly dripping off his chin, “I always make things worse--but I never wanted to hurt you, John, but I keep doing it because I’m despicable--”

John put his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock looked at him with puzzled, glossy eyes. John sighed heavily, dropping his head. Was this level of self-loathing a regular occurrence when Sherlock was high? Considering that Sherlock allowed himself to be nearly murdered by Culverton, John would say yes. John lifted his head. “None of those things are true,” he told him gently. He took his hand off Sherlock’s mouth. “Your mind is in overdrive right now, and you’re talking nonsense.”

“I don’t deserve your sympathy,” Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve put you through so much in such a short amount of time.” He raised his eyebrows. “I see your anger. It’s there.” Sherlock’s eyes moved around so quickly that John was getting a headache from just looking at him. “You want to hit me.”

John felt like his body temperature dropped by twenty degrees. “What? No--”

“You do,” Sherlock insisted, “and that’s okay. It’s only fair.” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Do it.”

John couldn’t help but lunging forward and pulling Sherlock into his arms, trying not to sob into his shoulder. This was so, so wrong. The other Sherlock--that had to be it. He thought it was fair punishment. Sherlock said in the hospital that he deserved to be hurt. With the sudden statements of self-loathing, John thought that this was a building up for a long time. “Never,” John breathed into his hair. “Stop this. I’m not going to hurt you.” _Ever again._

Sherlock’s body was trembling violently in his arms, and then it was like all of the strength left his body when he wept into John’s neck, shaking hands holding John’s jumper tightly. “The h-highs aren’t usually--this bad,” he choked out.

“I think you’ve been hurting for a long time,” John stared at the headboard. This confirmed, again, that seeing the depth and intensity of Sherlock’s heart was terrifying. “Breathe. You need to calm down. You worry me so bloody much,” John told him, shutting his eyes tightly. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

But then Sherlock started to cry apologies again, so John held him closer and told him, “It’ll be all right, just don’t fucking do it again.” It seriously didn’t feel right, holding Sherlock like this when he was high as a kite. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. “I need you to breathe slowly and deeply for me,” John told him. “You’re putting a dangerous amount of strain on your body.” His priority would always be Sherlock’s health, no matter how much his mind was struggling to process everything. The Sherlock in his arms now desperately needed his attention, but he couldn’t help but think of the other Sherlock, who never got to confess these things to John, who bore the brunt of his rage without question. John missed him.

But this man was still Sherlock.

“John, can we lie down?” he asked. “My chest is heavy.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No,” he shook his head, curls tickling John’s face. “It feels this way if I’m up too long when I’m not high, too.”

John let go of Sherlock, and then climbed over his legs to sit on the other side of the bed. Sherlock lay down on his back, pale cheeks wet with tears and eyes red, but he seemed to have calmed down a little. He let out a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “If I weren’t injured, I’d be bouncing off the walls right now. I’m restless but can’t move around. It’s uncomfortable.”

“It’ll wear off,” John told him. He caught a glimpse of the clock on the bedside table and saw it was nearing 4 in the morning. What a mess. “You should at least try to sleep it off.” If Sherlock said he took it about twenty-five minutes before he came home, and John figured that was about five to ten minutes ago, then the high wouldn’t last that much longer. He knew that was why Sherlock was drawn to cocaine--short, intense highs, which supposedly helped him think. _Bollocks._

“I’m not sure if I can,” Sherlock said, turning his head on the pillow and looking up at John. “You can go upstairs to sleep, though. I see you’re tired.”

“I’m not leaving you in here,” John sighed. He was exhausted, but too mentally wound up to close his eyes. A part of him still wanted time to himself to think, but that felt out of the question.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, his fingers curling and gripping his T-shirt over his chest. They fell into tense silence. John didn’t know what else to say at the moment, unwilling to hear any drug-induced declarations of feelings, and Sherlock seemed to be ashamed. John spent the silence going over everything in his head, but it all left him as hurt and confused and frustrated as before. Considering how many times John woefully misunderstood Sherlock, he didn’t want to make assumptions about his motives anymore. The space on his forehead between his eyebrows pounded.

Sherlock slowly sat up on his elbows, looking up at John. “I think it’s mostly passed by now.”

John looked at the clock. 4:27. Did they really sit in silence all that time? “You took it about an hour ago?”

Sherlock turned briefly to glance at the clock. “Yes.”

That was around the normal time for cocaine highs to wear off, but John looked at Sherlock’s pupils, and confirmed that they were back at their normal size. “Let me feel your pulse,” he said.

Sherlock held out his wrist, and John put his fingers over his pulse. It was only a hair faster than normal, but definitely a sign that Sherlock was almost sober. “It’s almost back to normal. How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Bloody right, you shouldn’t have.”

He sat up all the way, looking down at the duvet, the manic light in his eyes and frantic air to his movements gone. He looked guilty. Sherlock folded his hands on his lap, looking up at John from under his lashes, shyly. He opened his mouth, frowned, and then said, “Considering the time and how I treated you, I can imagine that you don’t want to have this conversation now, but if you’ll allow it, I’ll explain myself as best as I can.”

His body wanted nothing more than to get under the covers. He knew this conversation would be emotional and already felt beyond worn out, but they needed to have this talk. “Tell me what happened back there,” John said. Too tired, too stressed to care about being embarrassed, he told Sherlock, “Tell me why you pulled away if you wanted me to kiss you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd have Sherlock explain himself in this chapter, but it got too long, so I guess I won't have Sherlock and John full-blown kiss until 50,000 words into the story lol


	12. Ghosts From the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains why he pulled away from John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiii thanks for getting this to 700 kudos!! <333 And sorry for taking a little long to update, but the semester has been intense.  
> But here I am! And I hope you enjoy 3,100 words of them actually talking.

Sherlock was looking down at his hands, pressing his lips together. “Yes, okay,” he mumbled. He ran his right hand slowly through his sweaty, tangled curls.

John sat up against the headboard, not knowing what to expect.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but he sighed, swallowing.

“Do you not know how to begin?” John prompted.

“It’s...a lot,” Sherlock said, “or maybe it’s not. It feels like it is, but logically I know it’s all rubbish.” He stopped himself. “I’m rambling. I hate it when people ramble. I’ll get to the point.”

“Take your time,” John told him.

Sherlock looked drained. “It’s not a secret that I’m...not used to anything like this. Mycroft told you in Buckingham Palace.”

_Sex doesn’t alarm me._

_How would you know?_

John had obsessed over that exchange over the years.

“But it’s not just sex,” Sherlock said, not looking at him. “I’m not--accustomed to any of it. Any intimate interactions.”

John felt like he would have to help Sherlock a bit in this conversation. This wasn’t easy for either of them, and he wanted to get to the bottom of this. “Why did you never want any of it? How’d you put it, ‘romantic entanglement’? But, you said you’d want someone, just not someone like you. So, why did you never want to find the type of person you’d want?”

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but when he opened them, he still didn’t look at John. “It’s like I told you; I’m afraid.” He huffed in frustration. “It’s so horribly pedestrian--”

“Sherlock, I don’t care,” John cut in. “I don’t care about you being ‘pedestrian.’ I want to know what’s going on. Who the bloody hell cares if you’re like the rest of us after all?”

Sherlock did look at John this time. He was surprised.

John sighed. “I don’t mean you’re not extraordinary, Sherlock, because you know you are with that bloody brain of yours. But, your emotions? I know you have them, Sherlock, and they’re not a weakness.” _Just cut the crap._

That seemed to get to him a little, making Sherlock’s face crumble a little before he quickly composed himself. John was going to ask about it, but Sherlock started talking. “That’s the thing, John; they usually _are_. Remember Moriarty?”

“Of course I do.”

“Remember when he kidnapped you and strapped a bomb to your chest?”

He swallowed. “I do.”

“It was because you were my friend--”

“I _chose_ to be your friend and partner in your work,” John reminded him.

Sherlock shook his head. “But, it isn’t just your well-being--don’t misunderstand me, John; I always care about you and if you’re all right, but I’m a selfish man, too. You were only my friend then, and--you saw my face, John. I was terrified when you were in such danger.”

John did remember how Sherlock’s eyes widened like a little lamb’s, firm confirmation that he cared. He remember Sherlock frantically asking if he were all right as he got the semtex vest off John as quickly as possible.

“If something were to happen to you and we were...together,” he paled, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

John wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock, but held himself back. “It’s normal to worry about how someone’s death would affect you. It’s not necessarily selfish.” He clenched his fist. “When I thought you were dead, I missed you, Sherlock, and I was devastated that you were gone because of how much I care about you, but I missed what you did for _me_ , too. Would you say that’s selfish?”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Then it wouldn’t be selfish for you to worry about being upset if anything happened to me. It’s natural.” Sherlock didn’t want to be with him out of fear of losing him?

Sherlock stared at him, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m being selfish again. You did lose me, or at least you thought you did. You’ve always been braver than I am.”

John knew it was true that Sherlock’s “death” hit him hard because he was in love with him, but he still didn’t consider Sherlock’s fears unreasonable. “It’s...not really a matter of bravery,” he said, searching for the right words. “Part of why I kissed you was because I’d lost you, and I was tired of not doing anything and sitting around. I don’t know if I would have done that if I hadn’t thought you died.” But this was a lie; John lost Sherlock in the other timeline, and did nothing. He had ruined everything. It took him traveling to a fucking alternate universe to make a move. That wasn’t brave at all.

Sherlock seemed not to know what to say for a moment, fiddling with a string on his sheets with his hand. “But, in the face of devastation, you decided to act. It’s been the opposite with me.”

Pushing away the pervasive thought that he was in no way as brave as Sherlock thought, John asked, “The opposite with you? What are you implying?”

His eyes flickered to the corner of the room, lips pulling down in an angry frown. “It’s stupid. It was ages ago, why should I still be upset?” he muttered to himself.

Concern filled John’s chest, and he took the risk of placing his hand on Sherlock’s bare forearm.

Sherlock glanced at him, eyes red from crying earlier. He looked down at his hand. “You weren’t my first friend,” he said quietly. “When I was a child, I had one--well, perhaps two best friends, if canines count.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, a feeling of uneasiness descending upon him.

“I had a dog,” he clarified, “and I was very attached to him. I thought of him as one of my best friends. You have to understand I was quite young and--”

“Sherlock, they’re called ‘man’s best friend.’ It’s okay to love pets.” He didn’t remember Sherlock ever mentioning a dog. He didn’t know what Sherlock looked like as child, but he imagined a little boy with a mop of curls, hugging a dog. He didn’t feel fond at the image; he felt upset. Considering the context of their conversation, something must have happened. “Did something happen to the dog?” he asked gently.

The line of Sherlock’s mouth grew thinner. “He simply got old and had to be put down. I didn’t want him to die, though, and it happened at a very bad time. My other friend--my human friend, that is--we used to play together, but…” He swallowed. “He liked to play pirates with me, and he was the only person my age who I talked to. Mycroft was too old and arrogant to spend time with me. We got along well, but he got hit by a drunk driver. He wasn’t even out in the street. Apparently, he was on the pavement and the drunken man lost control.”

 _Jesus,_ John grimaced at the thought.

Sherlock kept talking, “It happened suddenly; one day, we were playing outside of my childhood home, and the next, my mother was hugging me and telling me what happened. It was two weeks after that when Redbeard--my dog--was put down.” He said all of this in a quiet, even voice, but it lacked emotion, as did his face, like he had trained himself not to feel anything when talking about this. “Anyway, those were two deaths I couldn’t take. I didn’t see either of them coming. When I was alone in my room a couple days after Redbeard died, I was inconsolable, and Mycroft came in to tell me this was why caring is not an advantage, and there was no way for me not to believe him. I was only eight, too, so I still valued Mycroft’s word.”

John had just witnessed Sherlock during an emotional crisis a little while ago, and picturing that amount of grief and pain in an eight year-old child, alone in his room, made him want to punch the living daylights out of Mycroft and scream, kick, and shout. He wanted to march up to God himself and bash his head in for putting that much weight on a child’s shoulders, setting him off on a course of self-preservation and destruction. John was hardly able to handle Sherlock’s death as an adult; he couldn’t imagine that much pain for a child to bear, and he supposed that was the point. Sherlock didn’t deal with any of the pain, but shut himself off.

“You never wanted to love anyone after that,” John said, not realizing the thought left his lips until he heard his own voice.

“Sounds terribly dramatic, doesn’t it?” he tried to smile.

“No.”

Sherlock stopped smiling.

For god-knows how many times, John wondered why the fuck the universe was so cruel to Sherlock Holmes. “I get it now,” he said thickly. “I do. You were young and hurt, and you told yourself not feeling anything for anyone would be the best option for you.” John touched his shoulder. “Do you miss them, Sherlock? Your friend and your dog?”

Sherlock was staring down at his bare feet on the duvet. “It was a long time ago.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he stared at John from out of the corner of his eye. “What do you think?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

But John slowly shifted closer to him, heart beating so hard his chest hurt. His heart was pounding, stomach rolling, blood boiling over how unkindly the universe had treated Sherlock thus far (and he felt angry for the child who had his life taken from him by some drunk twat). It was a horribly unfair situation. John kept his hands to himself, but was close enough to Sherlock so their bent knees were touching.

Sherlock’s fingers twitched, and he glanced at John from under his lashes. A few years ago, or maybe even a few days ago, John would have thought his expression was cold, but he saw the walls cracking. Mycroft forced him to shut down; John would break down the walls once and for all. Maybe Mycroft really did want to help his younger brother at the time, but he clearly did harm, and little to no good. “I don’t think I would have ever stopped missing you,” John murmured. “You can not stop missing them for as long as you want. There’s no time limit on grief.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wet, but this was different from his drugged, manic sobs from earlier. He was morose, quiet, the pain older and deeper, and John would seriously bet money that Sherlock hadn’t cried about this in over thirty years. It was like someone sucked all of the energy from Sherlock’s body, and all that was left were two glassy blue eyes staring at John.

“You’re the only person who knows about this outside of my family,” Sherlock said faintly.

“How do you feel?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Odd, I suppose.” He wiped his right eye with his thumb. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that I avoided this for a long time. But, it isn’t right for me to treat you a certain way based on something in the past.”

As much as a part of John wanted to agree due to his own heart’s desires, he said, “No, Sherlock, it’s understandable.” He held back a deep sigh. “It’s what you want, and I can’t change that.” He’d just have to live with the disappointment.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never known you to give up so easily.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I’m not giving up on anything. I’m just not going to force you to do something you don’t want.”

There was a slight pause, his brow furrowing deeper. “You misunderstand me. I want to stop acting this way and be with you. That’s the whole point, although I may not have made it well. I didn’t pull away because of _you_ , John, but because of what I told you. It was so unexpected, and when you kissed me, all I could think of was them, and how much they affected me.”

John really didn’t want to make this all about him, but the next logical step was to ask, “So, what exactly does that mean for this situation?” He really didn’t want to come across like, _Sorry to hear about your childhood trauma, Sherlock, but I’d like to kiss you again._ But, he didn’t know what else to say. All of this was so much to take in.

Sherlock took a deep breath, chest expanding. “I want to try again, if you’ll allow it. It’s time for me to grow up and get over this, I suppose.”

Ignoring his quick heartbeat, John said, “It’s not a matter of growing up, but I do think keeping this buried wasn’t the best thing to do. I am really sorry about your friends, Sherlock. You didn’t deserve that pain, and neither did they.”

His lips pulled up into a warm smile as his eyes shone with more unshed tears. “I don’t think I knew how much I wanted to hear that until now. Thank you.”

Heart tearing in half for the tenth time that night (or morning), John cupped Sherlock’s cheek with his left hand, and placed a hard kiss on the other cheek. “I won’t ever leave unless you want me to, okay? And we can work through everything together.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes downcast. “Okay,” he said, voice more high-pitched than normal, slightly scratchy.

John lifted his face and softly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, and this time, he didn’t pull away. Sherlock’s lips were moist from licking them, and there was no move to deepen the kiss, no hints of tongue or any groping--just a warm pressing of lips, their deep breathing the only sound on the room. John wanted to tell Sherlock that he loved him, but thought it might have been too much for one night. This was a massive step for Sherlock, and even though John was starting to think he loved him, too, that didn’t mean saying it would be easy for him. John didn’t think he would wait too long to say it, but not tonight. This was all they needed right now.

They slowly broke apart, foreheads touching. “I ought to smack Mycroft for the rubbish he told you,” John mumbled.

Sherlock started laughing, low and deep and sweet. He always cheered up when John started bashing Mycroft. “I’d like to see that,” he chuckled. He pulled his face back a little, grinning, face no longer too pale, a healthy flush on his face. “I was right earlier, you know. You do keep me right.”

John smiled. “Well, I try. Feeling better?”

“In more ways than one,” he nodded. “Are you?’

“I’m right as rain,” he snorted. “So tired it feels like my eyes will fall out, but happy.”

Sherlock twisted back to look at the clock. “It’s almost 5.” He stretched a little. “Well. That was an interesting night, wasn’t it?”

“That’s one word for it,” John rolled his eyes. “You didn’t even sleep at all, did you? How’s your wound?”

“No worse than usual,” Sherlock said, lowering himself and getting under the duvet and sheets. He looked up at John. “Aren’t you joining me? You said you’re tired.” He blinked. “Did I assume incorrectly?”

“No, no,” John got under the covers, lying on his side to face Sherlock. “I just wasn’t sure you wanted me here.”

“Then you’re stupider than I thought,” Sherlock teased, closing his eyes.

John flicked his shoulder.

“Rude,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Arse.” It felt really fucking good to have his head against the pillow. He felt like a ragdoll, tired enough from getting little sleep, and his mind...feeling weird. Things were horrible when he got home to find Sherlock high, they cried a lot, and hearing about Sherlock’s past was a punch to the gut, but he felt calmer now, and better than he did at the beginning of the night. Of course, the main reason for that was finding out Sherlock wanted him, too, but also because John felt like he really understood him now. “I’m glad you told me all of that,” John lightly placed his hand on Sherlock’s atop the covers. “I know it was hard for you.”

“I’m glad you saw me through that obnoxious episode I had,” Sherlock turned his head to face him. “And for giving me a second chance.”

John hoped the pain he suddenly felt didn’t show on his face. “Well, um, I’ve been given a lot of second chances in life. It’s only fair.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow a little, but yawned. “I may have been afraid to act upon my feelings, but I did think about kissing you. I never pictured it like this.”

“Nothing is ever really normal with us,” John said, stifling a yawn of his own and pulling the duvet up higher on his shoulder.

“Mmm, no.” He opened his eyes. “Is it normal to admit I thought about kissing you?”

“Yes,” John laughed. “Perfectly normal. I’m flattered. More than flattered.”

Sherlock carefully rolled over on his side, wincing a little. “Did you think of kissing me?”

“I was the one who kissed you; don’t you think so?”

“That makes sense,” Sherlock blushed lightly, looking small under the blankets with his hair mussed.

John was smiling. “And I’ll kiss you more when I’m not about to pass out.”

“I _did_ imagine you as a flirt,” Sherlock said, smirking. He closed his eyes again. “It feels much better being on the receiving end of it than reading it in the emails to your ex-girlfriends.”

John’s heart clenched momentarily. _I want to flirt with you every day, wine and dine you, sweep you off your feet, make you feel like exposing your heart was worth it._ “I’m...not even going to comment.”

Sherlock laughed through his nose. “Of course.” He opened his eyes, a hint of hesitancy in his gaze. “Can we do it one more time?”

John didn’t need clarification. He scooted closer, kissing Sherlock, the warmth of his lips and comfort of the bed causing his toes to curl and his chest to feel full. He was so tired that their kiss almost took on a dream-like quality until Sherlock pulled back.

Sherlock hummed a deep, rumbling purr. He shifted his head a little on his pillow so their faces were still close, but they had space, too. John used the last of his strength to watch Sherlock’s face relax completely, and then he allowed himself to close his eyes, believing that things were finally going right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So TFP had Sherlock's dog actually turn out to be his best friend, and I thought, hey, why not make them both exist? I figured it was a way to include some of what I think really is going on with the show, that Sherlock can't face his feelings or be in a relationship until he deals with the Redbeard stuff, without having to make TFP exist in this universe.  
> So they finally kissed! And there will be more to come.  
> (btw I'm posting this at 2:20 in the morning so let me know if there are any dumb mistakes)


	13. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their pseudo morning after brings news, kisses, and confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. As always, thank you for the kudos and comments. I don't have much to say, so enjoy~

John stirred when he felt movement on the mattress, having spent more time in a bed alone than with a partner, and his military instincts not allowing him to sleep through the disturbance. But, when he opened his eyes, he simply saw Sherlock rolling onto his side, back facing him. John yawned and lifted himself up on an elbow for a second to see it was 11:30 in the morning. He went back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes, a fuzzy feeling in his head. What a fucking night that was. He shuffled closer to Sherlock, but stopped short of wrapping his arm around him, fearing he would accidentally touch the bullet wound. Speaking of which, Sherlock should have taken more morphine hours ago. But then John heard him snoring softly into his pillow, and figured he should let him rest a little while longer. Last night, with the stress and the bloody drugs, took a toll on his weakened body.

John placed a small kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and inhaled the scent of his hair. He rested his forehead in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, ducking his head and closing his eyes. John felt his back slowly rise and fall through his T-shirt. The morning (almost afternoon at this point) was so different from how they were a few hours ago that it made John feel off-kilter. He wasn’t upset in any way, but overwhelmed. He was only sobbing his heart out about twelve hours or so ago. But, Sherlock was right here, and they kissed and sorted everything out. He was emotionally exhausted, but knew the worst was over.

John’s stomach growled, but he didn’t want to leave bed for stupid cereal when this was the first time he woke up with Sherlock next to him as his...partner? Lover? They hadn’t had sex yet. Whatever. He was his Sherlock. John wished he could hold him properly, but the last thing Sherlock needed was his wound to be aggravated. It was funny, now that John thought about it, that a few hours ago, they were in despair. It certainly wasn’t funny at the time, but life was so strange that John figured he had to laugh at himself and the absurdity of their relationship sometimes.

He did laugh, audibly, causing Sherlock’s breath to hitch. _Damn._ John’s fingers dove into his tangled curls, and caressed them gently. It was an impulsive move, one he wouldn’t have done yesterday, but he’d always loved Sherlock’s hair, and didn’t want him to wake up just yet. However, it was too late for that.

“John?” Sherlock whispered, voice groggy and deep.

“Hey,” he whispered back, stroking his hair one more time before bringing his hand down to his side. He didn’t know how much affection Sherlock wanted. John wanted to kiss him and hold him and stroke him, but would Sherlock want all of that so soon?

Sherlock rolled over on his back, grimacing and holding his chest.

John sat up, instantly concerned. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Sherlock opened his bleary eyes, tension around the corners. He swallowed. “I think what I did last night wasn’t a wise decision.”

Bile sloshed around John’s stomach at the image of frantic, high Sherlock sobbing on this very bed. “You think?”

Sherlock winced.

John sighed. “Sorry. I’m not angry. I was worried this would happen. I should have woken you up to take more morphine, but you were tired. Want me to get it for you?”

“I should get up,” Sherlock slowly sat up, still holding himself. “I need to brush my teeth and use the loo, anyway. I’m tired of this bloody bed, too.”

“If you need any help, let me know. While you’re in there, I can get everything for you in the kitchen.”

“Okay.”

John did, with a small little twist in his chest. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about the development of their relationship last night. _He’s in pain, you twat._ One of the first things Sherlock did when he got up was grit his teeth in pain. His mind was clearly on other things. John needed to get over himself. A couple minutes later, Sherlock left the bathroom and made his way over to the kitchen table, slumping in one of the chairs, and accepting the tablets and glass of water John gave him silently.

“I’m going to use the loo for a sec,” John said, hiding his disappointment. “I’ll be right back.” As he looked in the mirror after he brushed his teeth, he scowled at himself. What was he, twelve? He would just march in there and kiss Sherlock. He didn’t have to hide anymore. He didn’t have to mope around, coddling his pining heart. They kissed a few hours ago. Sherlock wouldn’t change his mind...As soon as he re-entered the kitchen, Sherlock looked up at him with a small smile as he munched on toast.

“Hi, John,” he said after he swallowed.

The insecurity completed faded. “Hi, Sherlock.”

“It feels like last night was an odd dream, doesn’t it? A lot happened within a short amount of time.”

“I agree,” John sat down in the chair next to him.

Sherlock placed the half-eaten piece toast on the table, not caring about the crumbs. A little apprehension entered his eyes. “So. When can we kiss again?”

Damn it, John really was a fucking twat. He needed to stop worrying about his bloody fragile feelings and being so self-absorbed. Sherlock had just been in pain, like he thought; he wasn’t second-guessing anything. _Grow the fuck up, John._ “Right now,” John told him, leaning forward and cupping the back of Sherlock’s head with one hand as their mouths met. He tasted like honey and mint--an odd mix, but simple enough to make him smile. He used to fantasize about Sherlock smelling of chemicals and cologne and tasting of...he didn’t know, cigarettes and something ridiculous. But Sherlock was just a man, tasting of the food he ate and toothpaste, and not having much of a scent at all, other than the fabric softener Mrs. Hudson used on their clothes.

The movements of Sherlock’s lips were a little awkward, a little too still sometimes and a little too hard at another moment, but John simply let out a sigh from his nose and gently corrected his kiss with his own lips. Sherlock would catch on eventually; he was clever. John broke the kiss. “How’re you feeling? Any better yet?”

“Not really. Distract me,” he puckered his lips and shut his eyes.

John laughed and kissed him, giggling quietly into the seam of his lips.

“Stop laughing at me,” Sherlock grumbled.

“But you’re so funny,” John cupped both of his cheeks, tilting his head to the side and deepening their kiss, warmth pouring into his chest.

The door to the kitchen opened, startling them both. Mycroft stepped in with a raised eyebrow.

“Really?” Sherlock scowled.

“I see the past twelve hours have been productive for you two,” he commented, a bored frown on his face.

“Why are you here?” John asked.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “And I see you’ve come to your senses.”

“No one asked for your opinion,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, “or for you to come here. You ruin every room you walk into.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I came because I have an update on Ms. Morstan.”

They were instantly alert. “Well?” John asked. “Where is she?”

“In custody,” Mycroft smiled smugly.

A beat. “What?” John asked. “How?”

“She was caught while threatening an important member of the media at gunpoint: Charles Augustus Magnussen. She had knocked his assistant unconscious, but she had called security beforehand, and Ms. Morstan had no time to escape.”

 _Janine,_ John remembered. Janine was never Mary’s bridesmaid, so maybe they hadn’t had time to become friends in this world.

“Why was she after him?” Sherlock asked. "Hang on," he said suddenly, "Magnussen...John, that was the name you said after you woke up, remember? When you'd been drugged and attacked on the sidewalk? How did you know this name?"

 _Fuck._ "I...I think I heard Mary mention his name once. She said he was vile."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

 _God, how things change,_ John thought to himself, the image of Sherlock blowing Magnussen’s brains out flashing before his eyes.

“He had information on her life as an assassin which she wanted gone,” Mycroft explained. "He was a serial blackmailer. Perhaps his men attacked you in attempt to get to her?"

"Maybe," John went a long with it. His eyebrows furrowed together. “But, why would she care about this now? She certainly doesn't give enough of a shit about me to kill him out of revenge, and she shot Sherlock; that by itself is enough to put her in jail for a long time.”

“When I spoke to her, she said she planned on killing Magnussen and leaving the country, creating a clean slate for herself. For all we know, ‘Mary Morstan’ probably isn't her real name, so she most likely wanted to assume another identity in another country.”

 _Rosamund_ , John thought with regret. He hated that his baby was named...no, she wasn't his baby anymore. She didn’t exist...

“Ms. Morstan said she knew Mr. Magnussen’s information would have followed her no matter where she went,” Mycroft continued. “Additionally, she thought she killed Sherlock, and deemed putting you through grief again enough of a punishment for--to put it kindly--betraying her.”

“‘Put it kindly’? What did she actually say?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable. “Well, I won’t repeat the expletives, but Ms. Morstan is angry you chose a man over her.”

 _Real fucking classy,_ John grimaced. But, this...this news didn’t put him at ease, for some reason. “So, she’s locked up?” John asked. “No way of getting out?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft asserted. “We’ve caught her, we’ll try her, we’ll convict her, and we’ll keep her in a cell. She doesn’t know you’re alive, Sherlock, by the way. I intend on keeping it that way until time comes for charges to be pressed against her. It’ll be quite dramatic, don’t you think?”

Of course both brothers were bloody drama queens.

“And she’ll be less motivated to attempt to escape if she believes her job is complete,” Mycroft added.

“You think she’ll escape?” John’s heart was in his throat.

“Personally? No, but we can’t be too careful. She won’t, though.”

“You were actually useful,” Sherlock said with a smile in his voice, “and you had good news for once in your life.” He turned to John. “That certainly worked out nicely.”

“Yeah,” John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. “Aren’t you happy? Mary’s in prison.”

“I am,” he nodded again, enthusiastically this time. “It’s just, wow, a lot to take in.” He expected this situation to go out with a bang, and he supposed, in a way, it had. But, last time involved a showdown at an aquarium and Mary getting shot right in the chest. It was huge, almost theatrical, and now she simply got caught like a common criminal.

It felt too easy.

“I’ll keep you two fully updated on her case,” Mycroft told them. “You’ll both be involved with her trial, of course. I’ll take my leave.”

“Couldn’t you have called with this information?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock dismissed. “Get out.”

“With pleasure,” Mycroft said with distaste, and left, shutting the door behind him.

John wasn’t really heartbroken to see him go; he was still angry with Mycroft over the rubbish he had put into Sherlock’s head as a child. He would tell him off for it one day. “I think he just wanted to check on us,” John said. “He took me home last night and saw how distraught I was.”

Sherlock grew tense. “Yes, that's right. I'd forgotten.”

John shook his head. “Let’s not think about it.” He swallowed. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to be relieved. Maybe he was just so used to Mary screwing him over, but this was a different universe, right? She was behind bars. She’d been caught. She walked free in the other world, so it only made sense things had been more complicated there. Right?

“I see you over-thinking,” Sherlock said.

“You’re one to talk,” John said. It meant to sound playful, but he sounded glum.

“I know,” Sherlock conceded. “Why aren’t you relieved?”

He didn’t really know. He couldn’t talk about how things went down in the other world. “It just feels...odd. I spent so much time worrying about her, and to be told I don’t have to worry anymore makes me--I dunno. I just don’t know. It’s hard for me to let my guard down, I guess. Especially when you got so hurt.”

Sherlock touched the top of his hand. “I see. Your feelings make sense, but if she got sloppy and was captured while trying to kill someone, something she was trained to do, then I think it’s safe to say she won’t be escaping anytime soon.”

True. John hadn’t known Mary to be sloppy, but if she were preparing to flee, maybe she was under stress. “You’re right.” John shook his head. “Sorry, I’ll stop worrying now.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock shot him a small smile.

John’s stomach growled loudly. “That was rude,” he said to his own stomach.

“Eat and stop worrying.”

“Again, role reversal here,” John grinned as he got up to make breakfast. He still felt uneasy, but it was probably his own stupidity again. He was the king of worrying about nothing, like when he worried Sherlock regretted last night only ten minutes ago. Everything was fine.

* * *

After John had eaten, showered, and changed out of his clothes from last night, he checked Sherlock’s bullet wound. “Well, it’s coming along,” he said, grabbing the gauze to cover the wound. “Honestly, I’m more worried about the strain you put on your heart last night.”

“I’ll take it easy,” Sherlock told him, sitting on top of the toilet seat.

“Damn right you will,” John applied the gauze, “I’ll make sure of it.” He gave Sherlock a light pat on the back, which he was able to do now that the open wounds turned to fading scabs.

Sherlock pulled his T-shirt over his head. “You know Mrs. Hudson is going to find out about us sooner or later.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” John said as he put his medkit away. “Do you?”

“Not really,” Sherlock stood up, “although I would rather avoid her seeing us kiss for the time being; she’d squeal and I’m not in the mood for it.”

John snorted. “Good point.”

Sherlock scratched his stubble. “I suppose I can't call Lestrade for a ca--”

“No! Are you out of your mind?”

He pouted. “It was worth a shot.”

“Look at you. You really think you can go out like that?”

Sherlock looked in the mirror. “Perhaps I've neglected my shaving habits, true.”

John was close to smacking him with the nearby hand towel, but noticed his lip twitched. “You're trying to piss me off.”

Sherlock smirked. “Maaaybe,” he drawled.

“You annoying cock!” John put his head in his hand, hiding his smile.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock laughed, his eyes glowing with mirth, “you call me the sweetest things.”

“Sorry, _sugar plum_ ,” John lifted his head, and was satisfied when Sherlock gagged.

“I'm walking away,” Sherlock muttered and stormed out of the bathroom, flopping down on the sofa, and wincing.

“See? You act like a brat and hurt yourself,” John rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so rough.” All joking aside, Sherlock was still too pale, the circles under his eyes too dark, and his frame a little too thin (he hadn’t even put on enough weight from when I came back from Serbia).

“You were the one who insulted me with that absurd name,” Sherlock put his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his temple.

John walked closer to him, shrugging with his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, stud muffin.”

“ _John_ ,” he groaned, lip curling into a scowl. “I read your emails to your ex-girlfriends, and you weren't even this bad with them.”

“You're special, cupcake,” John was barely able to get out the name without laughing.

“We're not _children_ , John.”

“Of _course not,_  darling man.” Even he was starting to get sick of himself.

“Will you shut up if I kiss you?” Sherlock glared at him. “Is that how this all works?” His tone was annoyed, but his face was pink.

Wow, John couldn’t imagine Sherlock saying that to him twenty-four hours ago. He licked his lips. “Yeah. Yeah,” he cleared his throat.

Sherlock sat up a little, looking a little skittish, closed his eyes, and puckered his lips. Did he think this was necessary for kissing? John sat down on the coffee table across from him, their knees bumping, and placed his mouth on his. He heard Sherlock inhale deeply, and his exhale was warm on John’s cheek. It was quiet in the flat, with a voice in John’s head repeating _You’re actually kissing him._ There was no Mycroft or fatigue to interrupt, leaving them to kiss as long as they wanted. Their lips moved slowly, and yet, John felt like something was a little off. He touched Sherlock’s knee, only to find it bouncing vigorously.

“You jittery?” John asked, opening his eyes.

Sherlock opened his, and they looked bright blue in the noon sunlight coming into the flat. His knee stopped moving. “Not especially.”

“Sherlock.”

“Maybe a little,” he sat back against the sofa, crossing his arms over his stomach.

“Tell me why,” John said, telling his brain not to get nervous.

Sherlock rubbed his jaw, gaze somewhere else in the room. He swallowed, the corners of his mouth tight. “The only people I kissed before were for cases, and it was brief.”

John didn’t know what that had to do with anything at first, but he started to understand. “You mean--is it a lot because no one ever touched you for this long?”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock put his elbow on the armrest again and smacked his hand over his eyes.

“Sorry, too blunt?” John moved to sit next to Sherlock on the sofa.

His shoulders slumped as he huffed. “This was another reason I never tried anything,” he said under his breath. “No one wants a man who can’t kiss,” his voice grew quieter.

John bumped Sherlock’s knee with his. “I think you’re not giving yourself much credit.”

Sherlock spread his fingers apart, an eye peeking through a gap. “Really?”

Well, Sherlock was clumsy, but John in no way disliked it. “You needn’t worry about that. But, if it’s the, erm…” John didn’t want to embarrass him. “Extended physical contact, then we can stop.”

“‘Extended physical contact’?” Sherlock dropped his hand. “Now I prefer the gushing emails to your exes.”

John paused. “Why did you read the emails, anyway?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I was curious.”

“You were _jealous_ ,” John retorted.

“And you were jealous of the Woman,” Sherlock shot back.

“I was,” John admitted readily, “but now I know I shouldn’t have been.”

Sherlock sunk into the sofa. “Well, that’s correct.”

An odd moment of silence ended the conversation. John wasn’t really sure if Sherlock wanted to be kissed again, and he was clearly uncomfortable with his lack of romantic and physical experience. Just talking about him ended up like this, with his face red and a big frown. John sighed, thinking about being jealous of Irene, and all the time he wasted. He remembered feeling sick when she texted Sherlock that morning they woke up here. Actually, “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“When we were talking about Irene Adler in your room, and when she texted you that morning--do you remember?”

“Yes, I do,” he nodded.

“You said you’d been ‘compromised’, and that’s why you didn’t notice me not reacting to Irene being alive. What did you mean?”

Sherlock sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “It’s because I was mentally recovering from finding myself sleeping on top of you, John. Happy?”

John blinked. “Sherlock, I’m not trying to upset you.” Sherlock opened his mouth with an indignant furrow between his brow, but John cut him off, “No, wait. I’m not making fun of you. I just want to understand you, after years of getting it wrong. About everything.”

That took the fire out of Sherlock’s gaze, his frame growing small. “I’m sorry, John,” he said softly, shame in his eyes. He placed his hand on top of John’s. His palm was warm and his fingers were large, enclosing almost all of John’s hand.

John needed to tell him. He lost Sherlock almost four times, counting everything that happened in the other world and now (Bart’s, Mary, Culverton, and Mary again). How much longer was he going to wait, especially when Sherlock still had self-doubt? John rearranged their hands so their fingers were laced together. He licked his lips, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. “You said you wanted the _yang_ to your _yin_...is that me?”

His pink lips parted, and he took a deep breath, hand twitching in John’s. His face was red down to his neck. “I have always considered you my better half, John,” he confessed.

 _Don’t cry don’t cry you’ve cried too much lately._ He cleared his throat, not trusting the steadiness of his voice otherwise. “So am I right to say ‘I love you, too’?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, expression frozen, eyes piercing into John. He said nothing. His hand went limp. It was reminiscent of when John asked him to be his best man, only it looked like he was going to pass out. John cupped his jaw, thumb on Sherlock’s hot cheek.

“You still with me?” John asked.

It was as if Sherlock hadn’t been touched or spoken to. He stared.

John moved his fingers down to feel his pulse, and felt the jackhammer beating beneath the skin of Sherlock’s neck. “Um. I don’t know what to make of this,” John said. He brushed the fringe out of Sherlock’s eyes, and still, he didn’t budge. He expected Sherlock to spring back to life suddenly, but he didn’t. He blinked very slowly, and silently crawled towards John. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and put his head on his shoulder, his knees around John’s thighs. They were sitting sideways on the sofa, and John had to sit up straighter and hug Sherlock so they didn’t fall over.

Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, John feeling his chest expand and contract, and kept quiet. John put his hand in his hair, hesitantly running his fingers through the curls. He wanted to say _it’s okay, it’s okay,_ but he read the room, and figured Sherlock needed silence for a moment. He held Sherlock to his chest, tilting his head and resting his cheek on the top of his hair. He knew that this was a good sign, and that sometimes, Sherlock needed to process things. It must have been overwhelming...when was the last time anyone told Sherlock they loved him? John never did before, and not directly in the other world. He only said that Sherlock and Mary were the two people have loved and cared about, but of course, that was putting him on the same level of his would-be killer. The other one would never know how much John loved him--no, no, focus on this Sherlock.

But Sherlock had to love him too, then. John was his other half. God, they should have had this talk before. John was joyful, of course, but he wasn’t giddy. He was calm, like he finally came home after being lost for years. Sherlock lifted his head, and put his forehead against John’s, his eyes closed.

“You okay?” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said roughly. He kissed John on the mouth. “Thank you.”

“I should thank you for--for loving me, too.” John felt like his face was on fire, head dizzy.

“I feel like this conversation can become circular and silly,” Sherlock said in a small voice.

John laughed, “You’re probably right.”

A smile lit up Sherlock’s face, and he was laughing, too, and hugged John tightly. This time, he sent them both falling down on the cushions.

“Oh god, is your chest okay?” John asked.

“More or less,” Sherlock looked up at him with a slightly pained grin, his chin on John’s chest and arms around his middle. “Worth it.”

“Still be careful, though,” John pet his hair. “I knew you liked this, by the way, since I dried your hair or you.”

“It’s new information to me,” Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered. “It’s not like I’ve had many people pet me like an animal.” He gave a small sigh and sat up. “As much as I’d like to stay in that position, I still can’t lie on my chest too long.”

Having Sherlock’s muscular thighs around him, and a full view of his T-shirt clad chest in front of his eyes, made the warmth in his chest trickle down to his groin. He bit his lip. Now was not the time for this--Sherlock clearly wasn’t ready. John sat up against the armrest, needing to make sure Sherlock looked anywhere but down.

“Can I kiss you again?” John asked, hoping his voice wasn’t too husky.

Sherlock nodded, placing his hand on John’s cheek and going in. His lips were pedal soft, and John never kissed someone physically larger than he was before, and he found himself suppressing a shiver from Sherlock’s large, warm palm on his face. There was a lingering trace of a venomous voice in his head hissing that this was emasculating, but fuck it, he was done with trying to be the man society wanted him to and--he was still a bloody man, for Christ’s sake. This was who he always was.

“You’re distracted,” Sherlock muttered.

John angled his face and deepened the kiss, opening his mouth and taking Sherlock’s lower lip between his. The faintest moan came from Sherlock’s throat, and that immediately made John’s cock stir with interest. He suddenly imagined what it would be like to hear Sherlock moan louder, and John kissed him harder.

A sharp intake of breath broke them apart, and it was from Sherlock. His red mouth moved wordlessly, his pupils large. He lowered his hand from John’s face, bringing it to his chest. “The morphine is kicking in.”

It was an obvious excuse, but John wouldn’t call him out on it. Besides, he needed to calm himself down, and Sherlock did look a bit tired. “Of course. Want to get up, or?”

Sherlock shrugged, trying to appear casual. “We could watch telly. It’ll be nice when we can go on cases again.”

“But not until--”

“I _know_ , John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, shuffling and sitting regularly on the sofa, thighs no longer straddling John. He stretched his legs out and rested his bare feet on the coffee table. His face was still red, and his chest was moving with his quick breaths.

John grabbed the remote control and flipped on some rubbish, sitting close to Sherlock, but not kissing him anymore. He would be patient, but he was sad that no one ever kissed Sherlock like that before, and they had hardly done anything. Sherlock deserved the best, and John wasn’t that, but he would try to give him everything he needed. John sat there for a couple hours, arm loosely wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders as he napped (the morphine excuse wasn’t a total lie, after all), but his heart ached for the other Sherlock, who was forever alone, forever untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I started to actually think about the Other Sherlock and made myself sad, so I pass it onto you~~~  
> But anyway, this isn't the last we're going to see of Mary lol


	14. A Day in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for over 800 kudos!!!!!!!!!! I can't believe it. Most of my finished stories have never even gotten so many kudos! I'm really thrilled. Thank you <3

The next day left Sherlock in a slightly sour mood, growing irritated with his injury. John knew how that felt. He remembered the long months after his shoulder wound, sometimes asking why the hell he wasn’t getting better sooner, even though, medically, he knew he was healing as quickly as he could have. He told Sherlock that he was healing just fine, but understandably, that didn’t do much to improve his mood. John, on the other hand, felt a ball of anxiety tingling in his chest. He wanted to get his mind off Mary. He’d slept in Sherlock’s bed with one eye open last night, and he was tired, and wanted to kiss him.

“Hey, Sherlock?” John called.

Sherlock was in his chair, a sullen pout on his lips, plucking at his violin. “Hm?”

“Will a snog make you feel a little better?”

“Are you really using such a juvenile term?” Sherlock asked, but he was already setting down his violin, an unmistakable flush creeping up on his cheeks.

“Fine. How ‘bout a kiss and a cuddle?”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, rising from his chair.

“Oh, come on,” John leaned on the back of his armchair. “You’re stressed, I’m stressed, let’s go make each other feel better.”

“You’re stressed?” Sherlock asked, alarm on his face.

“It’s nothing big,” John told him, and he supposed that wasn’t entirely truthful. “Just one of those days. I feel restless.”

“I noticed you bouncing your knee as you sat 4.6 times more than usual,” Sherlock commented.

John laughed. “Of course you did. So, I figured this is one of the really good parts about being a couple; we can distract each other from the shite in the world.”

“Sounds passable,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“I’ll kiss that bored look right off your face, Sherlock.”

That alone did the trick. Still unaccustomed to John’s easy affection, the annoyed crinkle between his brow turned into a suppressed, surprised lift of his eyebrows. “As you wish.”

John went for Sherlock’s room, and there was a groan behind him. “I’m tired of my bed, John.”

“You’ll be doing anything but sleeping, Sherlock,” John threw a wink over his shoulder. “Besides, the sofa is too small for us without me climbing on top of you, which I can’t do ‘til you’re all healed up.”

“You plan on lying down?” Sherlock asked.

John hesitated. “I plan on a proper snog, and I might kiss you someplace else.” His ears heated. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Sherlock got overwhelmed just yesterday. “Um, is that okay?” He turned to look at him fully.

Sherlock’s head was ducked slightly, looking up at him from under his lashes. “Yes. We could try that.” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

John hoped he would be able to control himself. They had to take things slowly. “Good.”

Sherlock took off his dressing gown, leaving him in a white cotton T-shirt and light blue pajama pants, and climbed on the bed, lying on his side. He feigned confidence, sticking his head up like a peacock. “Will you keep me waiting all day?”

He was transparent. He was charming. John got on the bed, lying on his side, too, so they were eye-level. He thought about kneeling over Sherlock and kissing him from above, but thought that might have been too much. They were close, faces a couple inches apart, bodies straight as rods. They still didn’t really _touch_ each other yet, and John felt kind of selfish for wanting more. Sherlock had admitted his deepest trauma only a couple days ago, and John was sitting here thinking about his dick. What a shithead he was.

Their lips met with tentative pecks, gradually lengthening and turning into a proper kiss. Sherlock’s lips were slightly moist from when he was biting them out of boredom and frustration earlier (John wondered if he were aware he did that), and he felt some of the anxiety release in his chest. Kissing Sherlock was new, exciting, but most of all, felt right. He told himself to stop thinking of Mary, and focus on the soft sound of Sherlock's breathing and the tiny, wet sounds their lips made.

A hand curled around the back of his neck, holding John there, and Sherlock applied more pressure to the kiss, deepening it.

“You’re good at this,” John murmured before he was silenced by another kiss.

“Impossible,” Sherlock mumbled.

John snickered, pulling back for a second. “Did Sherlock Holmes really deny he’s good at something?”

Sherlock’s lips were plump and his eyes were dark and dazed. “I know my limitations, and you know this is uncharted territory for me.”

It was something about Sherlock admitting he didn’t know for something for once, and the pleased, relaxed look on his face, which made John realize he never did tell Sherlock how gorgeous he was. John felt like a boy telling a first crush he thought he was cute. He didn’t know if Sherlock would shrug off any compliment...but something told John that wouldn’t be the case. John placed a hand on the side of his face. “Did I ever tell you you’re the most handsome man I ever met?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, yet no sound came out.

“You know how hard it was for me, all those times?” John played with his hair. “You’d walk around in that damn sheet--the one we’re on top of right now--or sometimes on a case, we’d have to get close to hide, and it was hard for me not to touch you.” Okay, maybe that was oversharing.

Sherlock licked his lips. “I’d...known you felt somewhat of an attraction for me, but I thought much of it had to do with my intellect.”

“What, that I find your intelligence attractive? I do, I do.” John had the urge to press his body against Sherlock’s. He held it back. “But come on, you’d play up your looks to get information out of clients on cases, or get Molly to do something for you. You should stop doing that, by the way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, trying to manipulate people for the Work is different than being told I’m--aesthetically pleasing, by you.”

John chuckled, pressing a brief kiss to his lips. “I prefer ‘gorgeous’, but I guess ‘aesthetically pleasing’ gets the point across all the same.”

“What an absurd word,” Sherlock muttered. His irritation was diminished, however, by the way he squirmed minutely and turned red at his neck.

John wanted to kiss his blush. He kissed the underside of his jaw softly, lips moving slowly and firmly. The stubble Sherlock hadn’t shaved away tingled at his lips, and he kissed harder, hand sliding down to his waist. The hand cradling John’s head tightened in his hair. John, as lightly as he could, opened his mouth and sucked the thin, sensitive skin.

A deep gasp came from above, and John pulled off him, about to ask if Sherlock were okay, but his cock twitched at the sight of his face, flushed more than John had ever seen, mouth open in a heart shape. _Oh god._

“C-can you do that again?” Sherlock rasped.

John felt his cock stir again, and there was no way he could resist. He latched onto Sherlock’s neck again, kissing his neck, and delicately nibbled the skin. Sherlock’s other hand came around his back, and all ten fingers were gripping John tightly. He was breathing hard, tilting his head upward to give John better access to his throat. John took a chance and sucked harder, and felt Sherlock shiver in his arms.

“You okay?” he whispered against his skin.

“It’s a lot,” his voice rumbled in his throat, and John felt the vibrations.

The sensation went right to his cock, and John wished he’d worn more loose-fitting trousers today. He didn’t think Sherlock noticed, though. “Want me to stop?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised at himself.

John got back to it, moving lower on his neck, hand subconsciously running up and down his side slowly, sensually. His body _needed_ to touch Sherlock, unless and until he was told to stop. It was instinctual. Being close to Sherlock was as natural as breathing. His lips moved to his Adam’s apple, mouthing it, and John felt him swallow. John giggled and told Sherlock why, and Sherlock gave an annoyed _hmph_ and told him to _Stop using your mouth for idiocy, John._

John moved back up to kiss him on the mouth, parting his lips and taking Sherlock’s plump lower lip and sucking. He felt Sherlock’s ankle hook over his, and wondered if he knew he did it. John kept kissing him, the hot, velvet-soft glide of their lips making the warmth in his pelvis pool and trickle down to his groin. Sherlock’s hands didn’t help either; John always thought they were beautiful, but having them on his body made him feel obsessed with them. He loved when Sherlock would absentmindedly trace his lips, and thought it would be even sexier if he touched other parts of himself with those long fingers (what if he rubbed his nipples, or stroked himself? Did Sherlock get himself off?).

John was getting harder, and he let out a shaky breath from his nose, tracing the seam of Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue ever so slightly.

Sherlock stiffened, and then wrapped his arm fully around John’s middle, hand tightening further on his jumper. His torso was pressed against John’s now, warm and solid under his shirt, and John had to make sure his groin didn’t, in any way, touch Sherlock. John’s tongue slipped into Sherlock’s mouth, drawing out a weak moan. His tongue was hot and wet, and then they broke the kiss, breathing heavily out of their mouths, staring at each other.

John’s heart clenched. “You really are a beautiful man.”

“Then I suppose we make quite a pair,” he mumbled shyly.

John laughed softly. “The handsome detective with his dramatic coat and his short, retired army doctor--I suppose we do.”

“The, as you said, handsome detective and his strong, handsome doctor,” Sherlock corrected, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, Sherlock, trust me, you’re the better looking half of this couple,” John brushed off the compliment.

Sherlock hummed, kissing his lips. “Nonsense. You’re my handsome soldier.” Seeming to have realized what he said, embarrassment flooded his face. “Forget I said that.”

“Not a chance,” John teased and kissed Sherlock with new vigour, his toes curling and heart fluttering. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Sherlock would find him attractive, and it felt good. Mary never complimented his looks much.

“Mmm, John?” Sherlock asked through the kiss.

“Hmm?”

“Can you kiss my neck again?” he asked quietly.

John answered by pressing open-mouthed kisses on the lower part of his neck, curling his hand around his hip. He decided to bite down on Sherlock’s neck, and was rewarded with a deep moan, cut off at the end when Sherlock clamped his lips shut, self-conscious. But the sound and vibrations from his moan went directly to John’s cock. He wished he could rub himself to take the edge off. He kissed lower still, lips on the spot of skin in between his neck and shoulder.

Sherlock was trembling lightly and had John in a death grip, trying to hold back his low moans and grunts. He was so fucking _sexy_ and didn’t even know it, and the thought alone made John throb. He wanted to run his hand over Sherlock’s broad chest (above the wound, of course), rub his nipple through his shirt.

Well, why couldn’t he? As long as Sherlock didn’t protest…

The hand that was smoothing down Sherlock’s hide went under his T-shirt, running up the (non-wounded) side of his body. His skin was hot, and John felt his chest contracting with each quick breath. His thumb rubbed his nipple (it was already hard--how wound up was Sherlock?), and he felt a harsh shiver run through Sherlock’s body. John was pressing quick, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his jaw, murmuring _You okay? You okay?_

Sherlock was exhaling hot, shaking breaths onto John’s temple. He shifted, and suddenly, something was poking John right above the belt. Without thinking John lifted his head and dropped his gaze, and his eyes widened, breath hitching.

Sherlock was hard.

_Oh, fuck._

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily, an inquisitive rumble coming from his chest, and he looked down. Instantly, horror flashed across his face. He gulped. “John,” he said in a fraught whisper.

John looked down at himself, and he had a noticeable bulge, too. He cleared his throat, head spinning, moving his hand away from his chest. “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring at his erection like someone had dropped an insect into the bed. “I didn’t even realize this was happening.” His breath was ragged. “I was caught up and, and I didn’t mean to.”

“Sherlock, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Look at me. No, I mean look down.” It was embarrassing for him, too, to have such an obvious erection tenting his jeans, but he needed to let Sherlock know there was nothing wrong with him.

Somehow, Sherlock’s face turned even redder when he saw John’s bulge, jaw dropping. He covered his eyes with his hand and rolled over on his side, back facing John.

 _Shit._ “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should’ve stopped. Things got heated pretty fast.” He was blinded by his own arousal.

Sherlock lay there silently for a long moment, his back moving up and down with each breath. He was silent long enough for John to question getting up. Then, he looked at John from over his shoulder, and rolled back over to face him. His erection was still there. He closed his eyes, hands clasped together in front of him, looking vulnerable and small. “I think I want to try it. Touching.”

John’s prick throbbed again. “You sure? We don’t have to.”

“I want to, with you,” he opened his eyes, a little jittery. “Just.” He swallowed. “No one’s ever seen me like this before.”

“I know,” John said softly.

“And it’s slightly--frightening.”

“Lots of first times are. But like I said, I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

With what looked like great emotional effort, Sherlock said roughly, “I want you to. Please. I never wanted anyone but you.”

John’s bulge was pressing against his zipper. “Okay. I won’t do anything too involved. I think we’re both a little too hard for much more build up.”

That made Sherlock grin a little.

John went back to kissing his lips gently, and with a shaking hand, ran his hand down Sherlock’s stomach, reaching the hardness in his pajama pants, causing them both to gasp. Another time, he would explore more of his body, but they needed release, and to get over this initial awkward stage. John kept their kiss gentle, figuring it would comfort him, but Sherlock kissed him harder as he shook and bucked his hips.

“No, no, that’s brilliant,” John whispered in response to Sherlock’s alarmed stammer. He palmed Sherlock through his pajamas. _Oh my god I’m actually touching his dick._ “Keep doing that.” He slotted his knee in between his legs, thigh pressing up against the warm weight of Sherlock’s bollocks.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his neck, a hand back in John’s hair. He felt fully hard, bucking into John’s hand, the underside of his cock dragging along his muscular thigh.

He looked like he was enjoying himself, but John knew skin-to-skin contact was better. “You got any lube?”

Sherlock stopped kissing him. “No. It wasn’t on my list of items to buy after coming back from the dead.”

Right. “I suppose this will have to do.” He licked his palm, and slid his hand under the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama and pants, wrapping his hand around his cock. God, it was hot. He gave it a squeeze, pressing two chaste kisses to his forehead.

Sherlock looked like someone struck him with lightning, and he abruptly shut his eyes with a groan through his clenched teeth. He started thrusting into John’s hand and along his thigh, hips without rhythm, like a teen humping a pillow.

John curled his hand around him as best as he could, the position a little uncomfortable for his wrist. “Can you pull your pants down a little?” he asked, removing his knee from in between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock did, pants down around his thighs, and they stared at John’s hand wrapped around his long, hard cock. He was already leaking. John circled his wet tip with his thumb, hardly believing this was happening.

Sherlock’s lips quivered, and his fingers gripped John’s hair tighter as he hid his face in his neck.

John felt like he was in heaven. The hot breath on his neck was enough to make him tremble, but he was going fucking nuts over Sherlock thrusting into his hand, deep _uuuuh_ s leaving his lips. John was so hard it hurt, his own cock dripping with pre-come in his pants. His bollocks were aching. Since when did he have no self-control? _Since you got Sherlock bloody Holmes’ dick in your hand_. He curled his hand so it was like a tunnel. “Fuck my hand, Sherlock,” he whispered in his ear.

Sherlock outright whimpered into his shoulder, hips moving faster.

John was vibrating with lust, moving his hand in time with Sherlock’s (uncoordinated) thrusts as best he could. “Sherlock, let me see your face. Please. I love you, and I want to see you,” he babbled against his sweaty temple. “You don’t need to feel shame in front of me.”

Sherlock lifted his head, mouth open, eyebrows furrowed deeply in pure pleasure. His eyes burned with intensity which stole the breath from John.

“Fucking Christ,” John groaned, squirming, his cock begging for attention, tingling with pleasure. “Look at you.” He rubbed this thumb over Sherlock’s tip again, smearing the hot, sticky liquid.

Sherlock stiffened, throwing his head back, and then fucked John’s hand frantically, his pale throat (slightly red from John’s mouth) fully exposed. He sucked in a sharp gasp and came, his hot release spilling in John’s hand and over his own T-shirt clad belly. There wasn’t a line of tension on Sherlock’s face; he was blissful, and John needed to come _now_.

As soon as Sherlock was finished spurting into his hands, John stuffed his hand into his pants and tugged at his erection, hissing and moaning into the pillow, nearly weeping with relief. He squeezed himself, staring at Sherlock with hungry eyes, but it really only took a pitifully short amount of strokes before John’s balls tightened and he muffled his cry into the pillow, coming in his pants and on his hand, vaguely aware that his and Sherlock’s semen were mixing on his palm. Waves of pleasure pulsed through his prick, his body shaking with it. He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them.

Sherlock was on his back, arm thrown across his face, breathing heavily. His T-shirt was wet with semen. John realized his own hand was covered in both of their mess. He cringed, but didn’t want to leave the bed to wash his hands. He needed to be with Sherlock. This was the first time he had sex with the man of his dreams, and his heart ached with each beat.

“Sherlock?” John asked, and noticed his breathing was heavy, too. “You okay?”

A tremor ran through him, but he nodded, still covering his face.

Anxiety started to prickle John’s chest again. “Talk to me. Please.”

Sherlock turned his face, lifting his arm and lowering it onto the mattress.  His lip was wobbling, a terrifying rawness in his eyes.

John swallowed the lump in his throat, propping himself up on his elbows and placing his clean hand on his warm cheek. “You sure you’re okay? I love you,” his voice trembled, “and I want you to be okay.”

Sherlock kissed his palm, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. “I’ve never lost so much control,” he confessed.

John felt guilty. “Oh, Sher--”

“I wanted it,” Sherlock cut him off, thumb running over John’s hand. “I’m just…” he trailed off, gaze burning into him, silently asking _What do I do, John?_

John wiped his wet hand on his jumper, and then undressed so he was in his vest. Both hands clean(ish), he cradled Sherlock’s face, and put their foreheads together, heart thumping.

“You’re so important to me,” John whispered, feeling like his emotions were going to burst from his chest and spill onto the bed in a hot molten ooze. All he did was wank and let Sherlock fuck his hand, but he knew how important it was that he let himself be that vulnerable and exposed (literally) in front of John. Even aside from that, how could John act like this was a casual thing? He spent so many years in love with Sherlock, dreaming of touching him and making him come.

Sherlock was letting out quiet, unsteady exhales, his breath hot on John’s face. “I can’t be happy without you,” he confessed as a response.

And, god damn it, John thought of the other Sherlock. _No!_ his mind screamed. Sherlock was here, face in his hands, after their first time. This was Sherlock. This man was his love. This was as much of Sherlock as the other one. John was confusing himself.

“Wait,” Sherlock said. He sat up, then threw off his T-shirt. “That was messy,” he muttered, and went back on his side.

“Yeah,” John smirked, pushing the other world out of his mind. He remembered the mess in his pants, but decided to ignore it for now.

Sherlock got close to him again, the tips of their noses brushing. “Did you really plan on a simple ‘snog’, John?” he asked skeptically, lip curling in distaste at his use of jargon.

“Well. I would have been fine with that, but I got carried away before I could stop myself.”

“Of course,” he humored him. His gaze grew somber. “Thank you, John,” he said quietly. “For everything,” he clarified before John could ask. “For being patient, especially.”

“This was heavy stuff for me, too,” John said, impulsively rubbing their nose together like rabbits. Sex did funny things to his brain.

Sherlock hugged him in response, a deep sigh coming from his chest. “Sorry for not getting you off,” he said into his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to,” John reassured him. “Sex is about the heat of the moment, and that’s just how things went. If I didn’t come right that second, I would have exploded.” Feeling like he needed an ego boost, John lowered his voice. “You _were_ the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“God, _John_ ,” Sherlock shook his head.

“You really were,” a dirty smirk curled around his lips. “You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about if you’re wondering if the sex was good or not.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked after a moment.

“Mhmmm.”

Sherlock’s head came back up, a small smile dimming the earlier rawness. He was calming down. He bit his lip. “That was a bit fast, though, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe a little,” John shrugged a shoulder, “but that’s how first times go. But what’s fun now is that from here one, we can get used to each other’s bodies and do new things. You like doing new things.”

“I do,” he admitted easily, sounding a little excited. “I’ll admit, though, I was looking forward to seeing you naked today.”

John giggled, the lingering tension on the air vanishing. “You still can, you know. Honestly? My pants are a mess and it’s uncomfortable.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Then make yourself comfortable,” he breathed.

John sat up, getting out of his jeans and pants, relieved when the stickiness was no longer clinging to his (now flaccid) cock. He took off his vest, too, and turned to Sherlock, actually feeling a bit self-conscious now that they weren’t having sex. Sherlock had seen him shirtless before after he’d gotten out of the shower in the past, but that was about it, and he really did think he couldn’t compare to Sherlock at all in terms of looks.

But Sherlock looked like he stopped breathing. He sat up, too, and placed his hand over John’s chest. His eyes flickered up, and he pressed a firm kiss to his lips.

“Mmm--what was that for?” John asked, feeling himself blush.

“We’re definitely going to have to have sex again,” Sherlock’s eyes traveled down his body.

“Sherlock!” John laughed, covering his face with both of his hands.

“You’re just as wonderful as I imagined,” he slowly smoothed his hands down John’s chest.

Mary never complimented him like this. Ever. She said he was sexy sometimes, but this was compliment was out of pure affection. John lowered his hands, not sure how to respond.

Sherlock stared at him, seeming to pick up on his thoughts. “You...You are extraordinary to me, John, inside and out,” he said emphatically.

He was _not_ going to cry. “I knew a romantic was hiding in you somewhere,” John said, voice scratchy to his own ears.

Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re absurd.”

John smiled back, and they shared the quiet moment, the soft afternoon sunlight highlighting Sherlock’s messy curls.

“How’s your chest?” John asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, running his hand over John’s bicep.

“You like to touch, hm?” John felt like a big cat.

Sherlock hummed absentmindedly, eyes down.

“You’re staring at my junk,” John barely managed to say with a straight face.

Sherlock’s eyes shot up. “Sorry.”

“I’m flattered,” John said smugly.

There were footsteps outside, and John’s head spun to the door.

“It’s Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered. “I can tell by her footsteps.”

“Shit,” John swore. He’d thrown his clothes on the floor, so he only had the time to climb under the duvet and sheets, covering himself just as the door opened. It was a good thing Sherlock kept his pajama bottoms on.

There was a light knock on the door. “Sherlock, dear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” he called, making no move to get up. “Perhaps she won’t come in,” he whispered to John.

He was immediately proven wrong when Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “It’s just--” She gasped, hand flying to her chest in shock.

Although blankets were covering him, John felt exposed, like his mother walked in on him.

“Oh, goodness!” she beamed.

Sherlock sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “What is it that you want, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Well,” she put her hands on her hips, “I hardly saw you two for days, and now I see why!” She looked like the cat that got the canary. “I was wondering how you’re doing, Sherlock, but you seem to be in excellent health thanks to you, John.”

John was a little bit mortified, sure, but he knew she really cared for them. She remembered when she forced a drugged Sherlock into the boot of her car just so John would talk to him. She was rooting for them more than anyone else. ‘Yeah, um, he’s doing well,” John coughed.

“And you, too,” she observed. “I _knew_ you fancied him from the beginning.”

Sherlock nudged his arm, smiling as John groaned. “It was mutual,” said he.

“Of course it was,” she agreed. “I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’ve been waiting for this since the moment you moved in.”

John realized his own stubbornness and stupidity must have hurt the other Mrs. Hudson then, too. Was there anyone he didn’t hurt?

Thankfully, Sherlock was in a talkative mood, so John didn’t have to respond. “Thank you,” he flashed a grin, “but please leave.”

Mrs. Hudson only casually waved her hand. “Of course, you’re in the honeymoon stages, I understand. Glad to see you’re well,” she giggled, and left the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

John lay back on the pillows, rubbing his face. “God, that was uncomfortable.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. “She was going to find out eventually.”

“She’s happy for us,” John pushed the blankets down a little so his chest was exposed, “but I didn’t want her to exactly find us in bed.”

“I know. Have you told Lestrade?”

“Huh?”

“You want to Lestrade’s the night. Well, that night. I know you did, so he must know why you were there. You should tell him we’re together. He’s a good man, no matter how dense he is.”

Sometimes, he thought Sherlock had more tact than people gave him credit for.  “Good point.” He got up and retrieved his phone from his jeans pocket, forgotten in all the excitement.

 _I should let you know Sherlock and I sorted out our shit,_ he sent.

John noticed Sherlock staring at him. “Curious thing, aren’t you?” He was a little smug, but the most beautiful man in the world seemed to be captivated by him. He was bloody chuffed.

“Not at all,” he replied with faux disinterest.

John got back into bed, lying on the pillows again, taking the phone with him.

Sherlock curled against his side, placing his head on his chest. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“You don’t even need to ask.”

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against his chest. “Your skin feels good against mine,” he sighed.

He was so damn sweet sometimes, enjoying something so simple, so pure. John’s phone buzzed before he could respond.

**Thank fucking Christ. What happened?**

_Basically a huge misunderstanding. Getting into more detail would be too personal, but we’re good now._

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, phone in his line of view. “There are certain things only you can know.”

“I know that,” John kissed the top of his head. “Just between us, I promise.”

**Really glad to hear it. It’s been a few days so I guess you two have done some making up ;)**

_Sherlock made a disgusted noise at your text and emoji. But you bet._

“You’re an oaf,” Sherlock said into his chest. He climbed up a bit and wrapped his arm around his chest, tucking his head into the pillow and John’s neck. “You’re boring me.” His lips against John’s neck made his skin break out in gooseflesh.

“You’re lying,” John said as he looked down at his phone. “You think I’m riveting,” he joked.

“I do,” Sherlock said seriously.

**Hahaha, I knew it. If Sherlock is reading your messages then you’re together? I won’t interrupt anymore ;))))**

_Ha, yeah he is with me. Thanks, Greg. For the other night._

**Stop talking to me and get back to him.**

John smirked and put the phone on the bedside table. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back. “You awake?”

“Mhm.”

“Chest okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.”

They were quiet. John loved the weight of Sherlock’s body on his. His thigh was just barely an inch away from his groin, and he thought about turning over and kissing Sherlock, touching each other and having sex again. They had all day to do nothing but lounge around in this bed.

But Sherlock sighed in annoyance and grumbled.

“What was that?” John asked.

“I can’t believe I’m tired again,” he said with a frown, rearranging his face so his mouth brushed against the shell of John’s ear. “When will I stop sleeping like an infant?”

“The doctor recommended lowering your morphine intake a week after your discharge, which is two days from now. I know,” he said to Sherlock’s _ugh!_ “I know you don’t like sleeping so much, but, despite the hell your body has gone through, I think the worst is over.”

“I sure do hope so,” Sherlock said, tone more serious than it was a few seconds ago.

John knew he wasn’t just talking about his health. Whether he was simply being reflective, John didn’t know, but he thought of Mary again. He held Sherlock close, paying no mind to his nudity. Their chests were pressed together, hearts beating in sync. “I do too, Sherlock. I really do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured you guys deserved a fluff chapter after 57,000 words of angst lol


	15. A New Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, John actually dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeey thank you for all the kudos! I'm glad you liked Sherlock humping John's hand so much. I can't believe this story has 15 chapters. This is now the most I've ever written.

The funny thing was that after lying about it since he ended up in this world, John actually had a dream about Sherlock.

It was short, although he supposed technically, all dreams are pretty short, but for lack of a better word, the dream had no story. John didn’t remember his dreams often, but when he did, they involved memories from the war, or Sherlock falling, or a fictitious variation of those events. This dream was like a disembodied glimpse into the flat, no context, no explanation for what was going on.

The dream took place in their sitting room, but it was dark, quiet, and empty, save for Sherlock. He sitting down, elbow bent and on top of the arm of his chair, hand covering his eyes. It was unnervingly quiet. Sherlock only sat in his chair, alone, face in his hand, his ratty blue dressing gown hanging loosely off his shoulders. He breathed in deeply, shakily, lower lip trembling. It sounded like he was going to cry.

John shot up with a gasp, hand on his chest, eyes opening and meeting the darkness of the room. The dream shouldn’t have been disturbing, but it was. Something about it was weighing down John’s heart and wrapping a shiver around his spine like a vine.

“Whuz wrong?” Sherlock slurred next to him.

John’s head whipped around.

Sherlock was curled up in the sheets, cheeks pink, fringe a mess on his forehead, blue eyes soft and fuzzy with sleep. His face was visible only by the light from the loo they had forgotten to shut, and the clock told John it was half past two.

John dropped his hand off his chest. _He’s right here._ “Um, nothing.” His voice was hoarse, so he cleared his throat. He tentatively lay down on his back, bringing the duvet to his collarbone. “It was just a weird dream.” John had nightmares a million times more disturbing than that over the years, from memories of the warzone to Sherlock’s head cracked and spilling blood all over the pavement. Why did such a small, non eventful dream make him uneasy? It was just really odd, and the oddness alone was making him feel off-kilter.

Sherlock moaned tiredly, closing his eyes. “Another one of your silly dreams?”

“No,” John said slowly, the strange feeling tugging at his chest. “It was different this time.”

“How?” Sherlock asked, not opening his eyes.

“It was less...elaborate.” He turned on his side, facing Sherlock, needing to look at him. It was stupid, because nothing exactly bad happened in the dream, but John wanted to hold him.

“Again, how?” Sherlock asked, sniffing.

“It was just you,” John shrugged at him, despite Sherlock’s closed eyes. “You were in the sitting room alone, and it was quiet. You looked upset.”

There was a pause.

“Was that it?” Sherlock cracked open an eye.

“Yeah.”

He opened both eyes, eyebrows furrowed. “That made you jump up?”

John couldn’t really defend himself. “Yeah, I mean...I don’t know. It was eerie. You were sad.”

“I’m right here,” Sherlock yawned. “You’ve had worse dreams.”

“I know.” He didn’t know what else to say. He tried to shake it off. “It struck me for some reason, but, I don’t know, it’s not important. Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

“Okay,” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, snuggling into the pillow (although he would never use that word to describe himself). “Sweet dreams,” he mumbled, voice soft and rich like honey.

John pressed a kiss to his warm forehead, carefully wrapping his arms around his frame to avoid hurting him. “G’night.” But he couldn’t fall back asleep for another couple hours. John watched him sleep peacefully, petting his hair for a little while until a little crinkle appeared on Sherlock’s nose. John went still so he wouldn’t awaken. He wished he knew why the dream bothered him so much, but he dozed off close to four, and by the time he woke up, it was in the back of his mind.

* * *

After they crossed that final, physical barrier yesterday, there was not much to do in the flat other than touch each other. They were standing in front of the fireplace, Sherlock’s arms around his back, and John’s were wrapped around his neck. Sherlock was experimenting with putting his tongue in John’s mouth, and well, sometimes it was a little too much, a little too wet and slimy, but John let him do his thing, not exactly disliking it, and correctly predicting that he would adjust in time. He felt pretty pleased that Sherlock was learning the ins and outs of kissing on him, and not some random man from his troubled past.

And besides, even though there had been a little too much saliva at times, John would be lying if he said he wasn’t getting a bit randy from this, especially with the warmth of Sherlock’s breath on his face.

Sherlock pulled away, not smiling, but face soft and open, just gazing at him.

John twirled a finger into Sherlock’s nape curl. “You good?” he asked softly.

“Mmm,” he rumbled, still staring.

John pecked his cheek, smoothing his hands down and resting them on Sherlock’s broad shoulders. Sherlock’s face was slightly red, and John wanted to make it redder. They had nothing to do, and he couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday on their bed. “Tomorrow you’ll finally be on a lower dose of morphine,” he said.

“It’s about time,” he grumbled.

“I think we should celebrate.”

Sherlock started chuckling, close-mouthed and low.

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at me with lust more than usual all day.”

Of course he noticed. “Well,” John felt his face grow warm, “how do you know it’s lust?”

“You blink less than usual and lick your lips more frequently when you’re thinking about sex. I saw you staring at me from across the room several times today, and I’m surprised your lips aren’t chapped yet from how much you’ve been licking them.”

“Cheeky,” John muttered, pinching his cheek for emphasis.

Sherlock laughed, “I’m only observing.”

John wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face, render him a moaning mess, more than he was yesterday. “You wanna do it, or what?”

“Do what, exactly?”

What would instantly make Sherlock weak in the knees? As much as the thought of Sherlock hard and desperate was turning John on, he didn’t think they were ready for any penetration just yet; they had to work up to it more, he thought, especially since he never did that with a man. Never doing something with a man gave John an idea. “I can suck you off.”

Sherlock’s smile vanished as his mouth dropped open, fingers gripping John’s jumper.

 _Bingo_.

“Uh--you’ve never done that.”

John felt a smirk pulling up his lips. “And neither have you.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Fair enough.”

“If you don’t want to do it, then we won’t.”

“Did I say I didn’t want to?”

“Just checking,” John kissed him.

Sherlock untangled his arms from their embrace around John. “Where do you want me?” he asked, sounding slightly nervous.

A flutter of anticipation tickled John’s stomach. This was sort of a formal way to start off a blow job, but it wasn’t unexpected for Sherlock. “Wherever you’ll be comfortable.”

Sherlock looked around the room, and backed up towards John’s chair behind him. “The carpet will be easier on your knees,” he said with a blush.

“That’s very considerate of you,” John tried not to giggle.

His neck was already getting red, peeking out of the collar of his white shirt (perhaps today wasn’t the best day for Sherlock to decide to get dressed in something other than pajamas). He gingerly sat down in the armchair. “Is there something I should be doing?” he asked timidly.

John smiled wider. He walked over and leaned down, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands. His heart thumped, staring into Sherlock’s open, trusting eyes. “Just enjoy yourself.” He kissed him, their lips gliding together, his hand moving to Sherlock’s chest and gently running down it. A part of him couldn’t believe he was about to do this, but he didn’t really care enough to be very nervous.

Remembering how he responded yesterday, John’s thumb smoothed over Sherlock’s nipple.

Sherlock’s body jerked, and his hands suddenly flew to the buttons of his shirt.

“What’re you doing?” John asked against his lips.

“Speeding things up,” Sherlock replied, unbuttoning his shirt. “You were going to undress me sooner or later, right?”

John couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter. “I guess the whole sexy undressing bit has gone over your head?”

Sherlock huffed and he worked at the last button. “Waste of time,” he mumbled, a distinct, embarrassed blush reaching his cheekbones.

“It’s practical of you,” John encouraged him.

“I’m always practical,” Sherlock got out of his shirt and threw it behind him, and it landed somewhere behind John’s chair.

John kissed his cheek, and started giggling into his skin. “I never knew how cute you’d be.” He practically felt Sherlock’s skin grow hotter beneath his lips.

“I--won’t even dignify that with a response,” he croaked.

John kissed behind his ear, and gently pushed Sherlock so he was leaning back against the chair. He brought a knee up the the cushion, next to Sherlock’s thigh, and kept one leg braced on the floor. He leaned down and started kissing Sherlock’s chest (the uninjured side, of course), hyper-aware that this was the most intimate place his mouth had ever been, and it would only get better. His chest was just as pale as the rest of him, and John couldn’t resist nipping just below his collarbone, wanting to leave the skin red. He sucked the skin, finishing it off with a straight-up bite. Sherlock’s breath hitched, hands flying to the arms of the chair and gripping.

John placed open-mouthed kisses on his skin, mouth trailing down to a pink nipple. His mouth closed around it, sucking lightly as he could, shivering when Sherlock’s moan vibrated beneath his lips. John felt his nipple grow hard, and he licked it slowly, his own prick twitching. His tongue circled around his nipple, and then licked it directly again. Sherlock was making muffled _mmph!_ sounds above him, his grunts gradually turning into whines, his legs shifting and socked feet shuffling on the floor.

John moved away, and blew cool air onto his hardened nipple. As Sherlock made an even higher _mmph!_ , John laid his hand on Sherlock’s muscular thigh, smoothing his hand up the rough material of his trousers, until he reached his groin. John cupped Sherlock, and almost growled when he felt the hard, warm bulge. He felt so hard already, so worked up over something so simple. John felt himself get harder, and thought that anymore, he really wasn’t much different.

Sherlock trembled at the contact to his cock. “Do you want me to take my trousers off?” he asked breathlessly.

“If you want,” John palmed him through his trousers, pressing a sloppy kiss to his chest.

“It’ll be less of a hassle,” he said.

John put his leg down and stood up straight, looking down. He wished he had a camera. Sherlock was staring up at him with hazy, unfocused eyes, mouth open, face scarlet, fingers clawing into the chair, legs spread with a tent in his trousers. He was the perfect picture of lust, like something straight out of a porn site, but he was _John’s._

Sherlock swallowed, closing his mouth, growing shy under John’s stare. He unzipped his trousers, and John watched him get naked in a daze. This was like something out of his dreams. How did this become his life?

“How is this real?” John asked, words slipping past his lips.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, hesitating to pull his pants down.

John placed his hands on top of Sherlock, kissing his lips. “It means I love you,” he murmured.

“You make no sense,” Sherlock said in between kisses.

John tugged at his pants. “Mmm, maybe I don’t. Ready?” he asked, voice low, his prick aching in his jeans.

Sherlock nodded, pulling down his pants and stepping out of them, not taking his eyes off John and sitting back down. His cock was fully hard, long and flushed.

John had to hold back a moan at the mere sight of Sherlock. Throwing all self-consciousness to the wind, John dropped to his knees in front of him, mumbling _It’s all right_ when he was gazing up into Sherlock’s nervous eyes. John gripped his creamy thighs, rubbing his thumb over one softly, and took the head of his cock into his mouth.

Sherlock threw his head back with a moan, fingers digging into the arms of the chair again.

John was surprised by how hot the skin was against his tongue. _You have Sherlock Holmes’ dick in your mouth,_ his brain supplied unhelpfully. His mind went blank on what to do for a second, but remembered what he liked, and figured Sherlock would like it, too. His tongue swirled around the head slowly, dragging over the flushed, sensitive skin. He curled his left hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, squeezing it. His right hand was still on Sherlock’s thigh, and he felt it trembling. John looked up at Sherlock.

His mouth had dropped open, eyes closed, brows furrowed, looking like he was emitting a silent moan. His chest was heaving, pale except for the red mark John had bitten into his skin. Seeming to detect John’s gaze on him, Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he tilted his head down, meeting John’s face. But his mouth opened again, groaning and turning his face to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, _John_ , you can’t look at me like that,” he moaned.

John couldn’t help but chuckle, and Sherlock moaned again, throwing his head to the other side. “ _Oh_ , oh god, that feels good,” his long legs shifted against the chair, toes curling into the carpet (he’d kept his socks on, and it was strangely cute).

“Mm?” John hummed purposefully, satisfied when Sherlock gasped. He tasted the saltiness of pre-come ( _Wow, already?)_ , and John was achingly hard, squirming on his knees. He took more of his cock into his mouth, Sherlock’s deep, shaky moan washing over him like a warm wave.

John didn’t exactly know how well his attempt at this would be, but he started bobbing his head. Sherlock let out a shout, and quickly slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, so John figured he wasn’t half bad. It was a little bit of a weird feeling, having Sherlock’s leaking erection in his mouth, and he couldn’t stop thinking of how surreal it was, but it was also exciting, downright thrilling, and his mouth met his fingers, surprising himself at how deep he was able to go.

It surprised Sherlock, too. “John!” he yelled into his palm.

John felt himself leaking in his own pants, and he needed to drive Sherlock over the edge. He sucked, hollowing his cheeks, and took his hand off Sherlock’s cock and cupped his bollocks, pressing his thumb into his perineum.

“ _Unh_ , John!” his hips jerked up.

John reflexively backed off a little, but took more of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth again, sucking. He felt Sherlock’s balls rise up in his hand ( _fuck_ that was hot--Christ, his erection was begging for attention in his jeans).

“I think it’s happening,” Sherlock said urgently. “I can’t hold it back--”

Not knowing if he wanted to swallow it down, John sat back, releasing Sherlock momentarily, and started jerking him off with his hand before he could let out a distressed whine. “Don’t hold back,” he said hoarsely.

It only took two strokes until Sherlock choked out his name, hips thrusting off the chair, cock spurting his release on John’s hand, and on his jumper near his collarbone. Sherlock’s entire body was shaking, knuckles white from gripping the arm of the chair, and he was biting the top of his other hand.

John realized he was palming himself through his jeans, and he couldn’t help but let go of Sherlock completely and get himself off as quickly as he could, and before Sherlock came down from his high, there he was, coming in his pants for the second day in a row, like a horny teenager. There was no way he could have waited for something else, though. He was almost surprised he hadn’t came in his pants just hearing Sherlock’s deep moans as he was being sucked off.

John’s knees were unsteady and he stumbled backwards, landing on his arse, panting. It was like he was floating, quivering with the aftershocks of his orgasm,

“Damn,” Sherlock’s voice brought him back to earth. “I was supposed to do that,” he frowned, or tried to, still recovering.

John gave a heal-hearted shrug. “Once again, I couldn't wait. My bad,” he smiled. “Next time we do something, I promise you can touch me,” he winked, feeling drunk on dopamine.

Sherlock sat up, eyes growing wide. “Did I come on your _shirt_?” he pointed a finger. He put his head in his hands. “That’s disgusting.”

“Sex is messy, Sherlock,” John took his jumper off. “It’s not a problem at all.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Do I look bothered?” John asked, crawling over and placing his chin on Sherlock’s knee, smiling up at him.

Sherlock’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but soft and inquisitive. He placed his hand on the top of John’s head. “Was it good?”

“I had a bloody blast,” John chuckled. “It looked like you did, too. You were really fucking hot.”

Sherlock bit his lip, sighing a little, but he didn’t look bothered. “It...felt nice,” he admitted.

“Just ‘nice’?” John laughed. He playfully pinched his side. “You better hope Mrs. Hudson’s not home or else she definitely heard you.”

Sherlock tugged his hair.

“Ouch!” John swatted his hand away. He rose to his knees. “Scoot over.”

Sherlock did, and John flopped down next to him on the chair. “We need bigger chairs.”

Sherlock put his head on John’s shoulder, curling onto his side and putting his feet on his lap. “We’re too big for chairs,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around John’s bicep. “Well, at least I am.”

“Noted: Sherlock Holmes turns into a brat after having his dick sucked.”

Sherlock grumbled and hid his face in his shoulder.

John brushed his sweaty hair from the shell of his ear. “In all seriousness, you are okay, right?”

“Mhm. I think I’m getting used to this now. The touching, I mean.”

“Good. You look happy.”

“I am,” he looked up with a grin. “I spent so long swearing all of this off. It’s still an adjustment, but a good adjustment,” he said softly. “I’m glad that if I’m to feel this way with anyone, it’s you.”

John kissed his forehead, chest warm. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” he sighed peacefully.

John placed his hand on one of Sherlock’s feet, and smirked. “You kept your socks on.”

“They weren’t a priority.”

“You’re cute.”

There was the sudden sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing, and feet on the stairs.

“Shit!” John jumped up. He was shirtless, his jumper was on the floor and wet with semen, his pants were soaked with it, and Sherlock’s discarded clothes were in a heap next to the chair--not to mention Sherlock himself was arse naked! Why didn’t they lock the door?

Sherlock grabbed the blanket thrown over the back of John’s chair and was quickly wrapping it around himself.

The door opened, and Lestrade entered, a large manila folder in his hand. “Hey…” His eyes immediately widened, taking in the sight before him. “Oh, god,” he groaned, face palming. “Christ, I should have knocked.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said from the chair, face pink.

Lestrade stared at him, his eyes asking _Are you serious?_ “I’m not blind, Sherlock.”

John sighed heavily. “We weren’t exactly expecting visitors.”

“I see that,” he said uncomfortably. “I came by because I thought Sherlock could use a good cold case to occupy him, but I can leave.”

“No, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock perked up. “It feels like I haven’t had a case in a decade! You’ve got the files, yes? Bring them here.”

“I know you’re not dressed under that blanket.”

“You’re a fool.”

“I see your clothes right there, Sherlock.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

John rolled his eyes. “Just keep yourself covered with the blanket and go in the bedroom and get one of your dressing gowns.”

Sherlock was trying to appear bored, but John could tell he was actually embarrassed, and felt for him. John wasn’t comfortable, either, but it wasn’t the first time something like this happened. A memory of one of his ex-girlfriend’s father walking in on them as John was pulling up his pants popped up, and he shook it away. That was a bad day.

Sherlock did what John suggested. When he left the room, Lestrade spoke quietly.

“I’m happy for you, but jeez,” he pinched the bridge of his nose.”

John laughed a little. “This is thanks to you.”

“Hooray?” he asked dryly, and they both laughed.

Sherlock came back in with thicker, tan dressing gown around him. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

He was still blushing and his eyes were still glassy, but Lestrade shrugged and began telling him about the case.

John busied himself with making tea, happy to see Sherlock in his element again. He spent the rest of the day listening to his deductions, and it felt like old times, only better.

* * *

John’s eyes shot open, gasping. It was dark, well past midnight. Sherlock’s arm was thrown over his chest, his soft snoring rumbling in John’s ear.

“Just a dream,” John whispered to himself. He closed his eyes, telling himself to focus on the warmth of Sherlock’s arm and breath. He was as peaceful as a lamb. It was just a dream.

Still, John wondered what the hell was up with the past two dreams he had. It was almost identical to the last one, but this time, Sherlock had lifted his head from his hand, and his face was soaked with tears.

The image kept John up the rest of the night with a sick feeling in his stomach he couldn’t shake.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like smut sandwiched between angst :) I can't make this nothing but fluff, ya know (as much as I love some good cotton candy fluff).


	16. At the Cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary requests a visit from John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe this has over 900 kudos. Only one of my other finished stories has this many. Thank you, thank you, thank you <3 It's just so amazing. I didn't think this story would get this much love, or even be this long lol.

Lestrade’s folder filled with cold case files kept Sherlock thoroughly occupied for the next three days, his mind even sharper once his morphine dosage was lowered. He wasn’t falling asleep nearly every time he sat down anymore, and although he wanted to back to running around London, he was in a significantly better mood from getting to work at all. John was glad for Sherlock’s sake, mostly, but also because he spent less time focusing on John when he was working. John was tired. He kept having those weird, uneventful but off-putting dreams. They were all generally the same, but it was really starting to be unnerving. He didn’t want to bother Sherlock with it, and was glad he hadn’t noticed his recent fatigue.

Sighing and trying to remove the ache from his chest, John walked up behind Sherlock, who was seated at the kitchen table, and kissed the top of his head. He liked that Sherlock was getting dressed again, too. A Sherlock in pajamas was soft and cute, but a Sherlock in trousers and tight dress shirts was sexy.

“How’s it coming along?” John asked, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He hummed, eyes on the paper in front of him.

John leaned down and rested his chin on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his middle. He breathed in the sweet scent of his shampoo. The ache in his chest was still there. _There’s nothing actually wrong,_ John told himself. _Stop it._

“Everything all right?” Sherlock asked, not looking up.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You feel tense.”

“Just an odd angle to hug you,” he lied.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the papers.

John stood up straight, lightly patting him on the back. He knew Sherlock wasn’t seriously going to pay attention to him for a few hours, but John didn’t want to sit around watching mindless nature documentaries or reality television shows for another several hours. Getting out of the house might do him good. “We’re running out of food,” he said. “I should run to Tesco before all we have left is a box of biscuits.”

“Be safe,” Sherlock said, looking up.

“You think I won’t be?”

“I think you will, but isn’t that something to say to loved ones?”

John smiled, pecking him on the cheek. “It is. Good job.”

“You should make spaghetti bolognese this week.”

John rolled his eyes. “Just ‘cause your appetite is coming back doesn’t mean I’m your cook.”

“You like Italian food, too.”

“Fine, brat.” He was glad Sherlock wanted to start eating full meals again, at least. John grabbed his wallet, and put on his shoes and jacket. He was about to leave, but paused. The thought of leaving Sherlock alone made him uneasy. He went to their room, grabbing Sherlock’s revolver from his sock drawer.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows when he saw the gun.

“Just keep this close,” John carefully put it on the kitchen table. “In case of, I dunno. I want you to be safe, too.”

Sherlock eyed him carefully. “Mary’s behind bars, John,” he said softly.

He swallowed. “I know. Better to be safe than sorry. It’s not like I haven’t lost you.”

Sherlock’s face fell.

“I don’t mean to bring down your mood,” John said quickly. “Just be safe, for me.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will. I promise.”

* * *

It was cold outside, but the crisp air was refreshing. He loved Sherlock, but John was never one to lie around the flat. It wasn’t good for his health. There was something dark out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head. A black car was pulling up to the sidewalk.

It had been a long time since this happened, but he knew what was happening. “What, Mycroft?” he groaned. He would have been more grateful to Mycroft for dragging home that night, if he hadn’t learned about the rubbish he filled a young, impressionable Sherlock’s head with.

A window rolled down, revealing Mycroft’s face. “Get in, Doctor Watson. Someone has requested you.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Ms. Morstan.”

John got in the car, sitting across from Mycroft. “ _What?_ Why would she want to see me?”

Mycroft didn’t look pleased about it, either. “She wouldn’t say, but has refused to give us more information about her past unless you see her.”

“I thought you would have everything there is to know about her.”

“We have quite a lot of information,” he said defensively, “however, she was sufficient at covering her tracks, most of the time.”

John snorted. “What happened to you being like Big Brother?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “She was exceptional at her job.”

“Exceptional enough that she set off no red flags until she put a bullet in your younger brother?” John asked hotly, his temper souring. Why did Mycroft let Mary get close to them? He let him _marry_ her--not this one, no, but he probably would have done it again.

Mycroft was scowling. “What part of ‘exceptional at her job’ is difficult to understand?”

John’s hand tightened, gripping his knee. He was getting off-topic. “I don’t want to see Mary.”

Mycroft let out a long, suffering sigh. “If she cooperates, we’ll be able to lock her up for a long time with no chance of getting out. Come to your senses.”

He was right, but John was still angry with Mycroft, and he genuinely didn’t want to see Mary. He would have to, though, for Sherlock’s safety. He never wanted her to walk the streets again. “Fine. Let’s make it quick. I told Sherlock I’d get the shopping.”

As the car drove to god-knows where, John’s resentment grew. It would just be starting trouble, but Sherlock was alone with his trauma for years, not reaching out until thirty years later. “Mycroft.”

“Something’s bothering you,” he said, totally bored. “Sherlock’s right. Your face is an open book.”

“Don’t care. If I’m so easy to read, what am I angry about?”

“You’re angry with me,” he said coolly.

“Good deduction. Want to know why?”

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

His indifference made John want to punch him. “Sherlock told me about Victor and Redbeard.”

That, at least, made his eyes light up with interest. “He did? He hasn’t spoken about them since he was a child.”

“Because you told him caring isn’t an advantage,” John crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you have any idea how much you fucked with his head?”

He sat back. “This is the source of your anger.”

“Bloody right it is.” He thought he sounded like an angry boyfriend, and damn it, he was. “Why’d you do that to him?”

Mycroft glared at him. “He refused to eat for days. What else was I supposed to do? I saw how sensitive,” he said the word like it was painful to utter, “my brother’s heart was, and thought that with a brain like his, he wouldn’t need to lower himself to companionship, anyway. It would only lead to pain. I was right, you know. He only falsified his suicide and took down Moriarty’s web because he cared for you, your landlady, and the Detective Inspector.”

“Yeah, ‘cause caring is such a bad thing,” John shook his head. He didn’t know what he expected from this talk, honestly. “He’s not over them, Mycroft. I think forcing himself to repress his feelings about it for thirty years had something to do with it, wouldn’t you say?” he asked with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

“What do you want me to do?” Mycroft asked, just short of snapping. “As you said, it was thirty years ago. I can’t go back and coddle young Sherlock. Your desire to defend him is absurd.”

“You still don’t think you were wrong.” John wasn’t surprised, really.

“I did what had to be done,” he insisted. He pursed his lips, and then sighed. “Although, I must concede his temperament improved significantly once he formed a bond with you. There, satisfied?”

“No,” John said easily, “but I think that’s the most I’ll get out of you, so there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”

He smiled bitterly. “My thoughts exactly.”

John looked out the window, the ache in his chest growing. What was he going to do, beat Mycroft up? It was useless. The damage he’d done to Sherlock couldn’t be reversed, but John could try. He _would_ try.

He thought of the other Sherlock.

* * *

Being brought to Mary’s cell reminded John of when Sherlock was put into one while he testified against Moriarty. It was a lifetime ago. That was when Sherlock began shutting him out, and everything crumbled beneath their feet. John tried to think of a happier time, of when he and Sherlock were put in a cell on his stag night, but considering his bride-to-be, that wasn’t a pleasant memory, either.

Mycroft silently led him down a long hallway, the floors a bleak grey and the walls blindingly white. They stopped in front of one of the large, heavy, metal doors, and Mycroft gave a silent nod to one of the guards. The guard unlocked the door.

“Go on,” he told John.

John walked in, and bars were separating him from Mary. The amount of security she was put under struck him. Was this a maximum security cell? He didn’t know.

Mary was sitting on the bed behind the bars, in an orange jumpsuit.

John didn’t anticipate how satisfying this would be.

She was glaring, but her eyes weren’t on John. “You remember our agreement,” she said coldly. “Give us privacy.”

John turned his head around, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, walking out of earshot, but the metal door remained open.

Mary’s eyes locked with his. “John.”

John wanted to say it, wanted to call her _Rosamund_ just to see the look on her face, to rub it in that he knew more about her than she thought, but there was no justifiable way for him to know her real name. “Mary. If that’s your real name.”

“It isn’t,” she confirmed.

“Not surprised.” His heart rate picked up, anger pouring into his blood.

She stood up from the bed and walked towards the bars, and she looked haggard up close, eyes red and the lines around her mouth pronounced. “I need to talk to you,” she said quietly, but intensely.

“Why?” John asked, still speaking at a normal volume. “So you can tell me how fun it was to sneak up on a man and shoot him in his own bloody bedroom?” _Or when he tried to help you in Magnussen’s office?_

Her lip twitched. “I’m not talking about him.”

“Well I am!” John snapped.

She didn’t flinch. She wore that same calculating look she had in the flat’s sitting room, when he confronted her and Sherlock made excuses for her.

“It’s my turn to get what I want,” John pointed a finger at her, thinking of when they had completely dropped this subject in the other world, only for her sake. “I want to talk about what you did to him,” he hissed. “What did he ever do to you?”

“Are you serious?” her lips pulled up into a disbelieving smile. “I always knew you were thick, John, but think! Wasn’t that something your Sherlock always told you to do?” she asked with cynical glee.

The other Mary must have always thought he was an idiot, too. That only made sense. “You blamed him for our breakup,” he said. “But _you_ were the problem, Mary! You did nothing but lie to me, from day fucking one of our relationship!”

“You couldn’t have known that!” she shouted defensively.

“I knew!” He took a deep breath. “The way you acted--I knew there was something. It felt like I was dating a facade, and wasn’t _I_ right! You’re an assassin, for Christ’s sake.”

“I never meant for you to find out,” she huffed. “I meant to leave all that behind me.”

“Which is why you tried to murder Charles Augustus Magnussen. Mycroft told me.”

“People like him should be killed, that’s why there are people like me,” she said immediately.

John felt like he was getting nowhere. “If you were good enough to sneak into Sherlock Holmes’ bedroom undetected, how’d you get caught with Magnussen?”

She sighed. “I was distressed.” Fire came back into her eyes. “You broke my heart, John Watson.”

“I don’t care,” he said honestly, and god, did that feel good to say. He was a little surprised, though, that the end of their relationship affected her enough for her to mess up. He remembered Mary dying in his arms, praising him, and wondered how much she really loved him. No, it didn’t matter. “This,” he gestured to her, “is not an acceptable thing to keep from someone, Mary,” he argued, a spot in the middle of his forehead hurting.

“My targets needed to be taken out of society,” she explained calmly. “It was my job.”

“Sherlock bloody Holmes--” he almost used the present tense, and remember she was unaware that he was alive, “--was never a danger to society.”

“He was a madman,” she spat.

John wanted to grab her by the collar, if it hadn’t been for the bars. “You won’t take responsibility for your actions.” The anger was rushing through his veins. “You think you’re right, and you always will. Sherlock got in your way, in your mind, and that was enough to put a bullet through him.”

She slammed her hand on the bars, fingers tightening around them. “You’re the one who was drooling over him the second he got back,” she accused. “If you hadn’t been practically cheating on me--”

“Oh no,” John shook his head, laughing from how angry he was, “you are not blaming this one me. You don’t get to blame me for things anymore.”

Her brows furrowed. “‘Anymore’?”

He shook his head again. “Why’d you want me here, anyway? It couldn’t have been to talk about this.”

“No.” He let go of the bars, arm falling to her side, she stepped closer, so her face was almost against the gate. The glower in her eyes morphed into a look of shame. “I need your help,” she whispered.

He stared at her. And stared. And stared. “My help,” he said, monotone.

Her eyes fluttered shut, like she was bracing herself. “Mycroft gave you details, right? Well, I really did want to leave the country. There’s nothing for me in England.” She opened her eyes. “If you help me get out of here, I’ll keep my word, and never bother you again. You’ll never hear my name for the rest of your life. I’ll be gone.” Her voice lowered even further, nearly inaudible. “Please, John. You told me you loved me, once. Help me one time.”

A lot of strange, incomprehensible things happened in John’s life: transporting to an alternate universe was fucking one of them. But this...This? “What the _fuck_ are you on about?” he asked, completely baffled. “Are you actually serious?”

Her shoulders slumped, hurt flashing in her eyes. “Yes.”

Had he actually fallen into a reality show? “You...You shot my Sherlock, and you want me to help you.” He was too stunned to be furious. “Why...why would I even trust you to leave England?”

“I told you,” worry entered her tone, “there’s nothing for me in England.” She swallowed. “I wanted a life with you, John, and I could never have that.”

_Mary Watson was the only life worth living._

Her large, blue eyes grew wide, her face completely falling. “I did want to leave my past behind, after I cleaned up loose ends. We could have been happy. I would have even let you stay friends with Sherlock!” she insisted. “But, you didn’t want that,” she said, bitterness and disappointment in her voice.

She was serious. She honest-to-god didn’t think her shooting Sherlock was unforgivable. This...this was who Mary really was. She was pathetic. Egocentric. Thoughtless. John felt like he finally understood her, and the Mary from the other world. She really must have thought Sherlock deserved to be shot for discovering her secret, and that she deserved to be taken back. She must have thought abandoning him and Rosie was the right thing to do. She must have disregarded Sherlock’s feelings that much, that as long as she could be with John, he could stick around, her crime rendered irrelevant. Mary wanted a life with John, no matter what. Last time, he was stupid enough to take her back, but this time, he cut her off first, so there was no chance for her. She knew this. Perhaps she truly intended to flee the country after this. It didn’t matter, though. She had so little respect for _John’s_ pain, both bloody times, that she expected to be helped in some way. Not this time.

“You tried to murder the love of my life,” he said, voice dry and cold to his own ears.

She grimaced at his words.

John kept going. “You lied to me. You blamed everyone but yourself. You shot an innocent, unarmed man. Listen to me, Mary Morstan, though I doubt that’s your real fucking name: I will never help you. I could _never_ forgive you. You ruined our lives for too long.” He was talking about the other world, but couldn’t stop himself. “You _knew_ how Sherlock’s death almost killed me the first time, and you were willing to put me through that _again_. How could you? And how could you claim you loved me? None of what you _ever_ did to me was love!” He was shaking, knees trembling, his yelling echoing off the walls. “I hate you,” his voice almost cracked. “I hate that I ever trusted you.”

Mary’s eyes were welling up with tears, mouth agape, pale as the white walls around them. She stuttered, but no words formed.

This felt good, it did, but not good enough. John would never get to confront the other Mary. She got away with it, forever. Forever.

He willed the shaking in his legs to cease, and he stood up straight. He walked out of the cell, ignoring Mary’s pleas. He saw Mycroft down the hall, and called his name. “Your prisoner was trying to conspire with me.”

“What?” Mycroft asked, walking to John.

“She wanted to me to help her escape.”

He raised his eyebrows, and walked to her doorway. “Is that so?” he asked, a sardonic smile on his face. “Well, that certainly won’t help her case.”

John heard sniffing, and looked back into the room.

Mary was gripping the bars, tears streaming down her face. “John…”

“We’re completely over,” John told her sternly. “I’m going home. To Sherlock.”

Mary gasped, actually audibly gasped. “Sherlock?”

“Not as good of a shot as you think you are,” John winked at her, his stomach curling with indecent delight. He deserved this smugness, he thought.

Her face contorted, teeth bared. “He’s _alive_?!”

“You spoke with Dr. Watson,” Mycroft chimed in. “Your time is up.” He turned to the guard. “Shut the door and lock it again, would you?”

“No, John!” she cried out.

The guard did as she was told, and the metal door shut, muffling her yells.

John stood there, not knowing how to feel. It was great finally getting the last word, but god, how did he ever end up with such an awful person?

“I’ll take you home,” Mycroft said.

John nodded. “She won’t ever get out of there, will she?”

“No,” Mycroft said. “She has no chance of ever being released, or escaping.”

“Good,” he sighed, feeling tired. “Good.”

He spent the ride back home in silence, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

When John came home, it was already dark. He walked into the sitting room, and Sherlock was no longer absorbed with case files, but walking out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. “John, you’re empty-handed,” he frowned. “Where were you all this time?”

John just grinned, softly, staring at him. Sherlock’s chest was wet and flushed from the heat of the shower, his gauze wet, and his hair was comically flat. He walked up to him and kissed him on the (wet) lips. “Want me to dry your hair again?” he asked, wanting to care for him.

Sherlock blinked a couple times. “Well, that would be nice, but you didn’t answer my question. A prison?” he asked.

“I won’t even ask how you knew that, but yeah. Let’s talk in the bedroom.”

John told Sherlock what happened as he dried his hair, leaving out the part about arguing with Mycroft. He didn’t think it would do anything but upset Sherlock. John tossed the towel on the floor, running his hand through Sherlock’s soft, now-fuzzy hair.

“There you are,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and peeled off the wet gauze. “Do you think we could let this breathe, John?”

He inspected the wound. “If you’re very careful, then yes. It might be a good idea.”

Sherlock nodded, balling up the gauze and throwing it into the trash bin in the corner of the room. “That’s better. Anyway, how do you feel, about all of this?”

“I don’t know,” John said honestly. “A part of me was pleased to see her behind bars, finally getting her comeuppance, but I think I felt...tired. Seeing her in a jail cell wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be, in the end. I’m just _done_ with her. She’ll probably rot in a cell for the rest of her days.” He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to think about her anymore, honestly. I’m tired of thinking about her.”

“Then you don’t have to,” Sherlock told him. “She’s gone from our lives now. We can move on completely. She’s not worth your thoughts.”

“Hmph,” John smiled a little. “I guess you’re right.” He took off his jacket, setting it on top of the dresser, and took off his shoes. Exhaustion was catching up to him. “Sorry I didn’t get the shopping.”

“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s all right. You’ve had a long day.”

John gave a hum of agreement, stretching his arms over his head. He was really done with Mary. He didn’t have to worry about their safety anymore.

Sherlock reclined against the pile of pillows on the bed and held out his arms, opening and closing his hands. “Come here.”

John smiled. “And you deny your cuteness.”

Sherlock lowered his arms. “Never mind.”

John started laughing, feeling the stress fade away from his body. He got in his side of the bed, putting his head on Sherlock’s warm, bare shoulder. He let out a deep breath. “She’ll never think she’s wrong, no matter what.”

“John,” Sherlock scolded, “what happened to her not being worth your thoughts?”

“I know,” he kissed his shoulder. “How do you feel about this, by the way?”

“I’m obviously glad my would-be killer is behind bars,” he said, amused.

“You’re taking the whole almost being killed thing well.”

“I’m alive,” Sherlock said softly, putting his arm around John. “I’m here. I won’t leave you again.”

 _Oh, right._ It wasn’t that long after Sherlock returned from the dead. John actually forgot, because in his mind, he came back years ago. “I know,” he said easily, “but you act like this hasn’t had an effect on you. You can tell me if it has.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, resting his cheek on the top of John’s head. “Well, I’m at ease knowing she’s contained.”

“Before that?”

“I knew Mycroft would take care of her.”

“Before _that_?”

“I was worried,” he admitted. “It was a close call. I’d never been that injured before.”

John ran a finger down Sherlock’s side. “If she was never caught, it would have been never-ending worry, yeah?”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed. “I suppose I’ll have to thank Mycroft for this.”

John wondered if the other Sherlock was afraid Mary would try to kill him again. “Yeah,” he said faintly. He was thinking to himself, until Sherlock started kissing the side of his face. “What’re you doing?” he smirked.

“I’m naked,” Sherlock said against his jaw.

“I’ve noticed.”

“And we’re in bed.”

“Oh, where could you possibly be going with this?”

Sherlock bit his earlobe.

“Ouch!” John giggled.

“It’s my turn to touch you,” Sherlock said, sitting up and, in a swift move, pinning John down onto the mattress, hands around his wrists, bent knees by his sides.

John smirked up at him. “Oh, yeah? And what do you plan to do?”

The dark look in Sherlock’s eyes dimmed. “Well. Um. While you were gone, I read that the act of frottage creates excellent friction which leads--stop laughing!”

“Frot away, you lovely man,” John stifled the rest of his giggles. Sherlock started kissing him, running his warm hands down his body, pulling his jumper over his head. If John were honest, it was a little weird at first, letting a man take over. John was always used to being in charge in bed. Sherlock was physically larger than he in (almost) every way, and for the first time, he was hovering over John. It would have been overwhelming, if Sherlock weren’t humping his thigh like a teenager after three minutes of kissing. John had no problem with it, though, and was undressing as fast as he could, kissing Sherlock back blindly, shivering as he touched and explored and fucking deduced.

“You like when I suck here,” Sherlock whispered, and sucked the spot right beneath John’s ear.

John grunted, rolling his hips against Sherlock’s, and their breath was taken away when hot skin met hot skin. “You realize you’ve been groping me nonstop?”

“Should I not?” his hands stilled on his hips.

“Nah, it’s nice,” John smeared a kiss across his lips. “You’re just enthusiastic.”

Sherlock nodded and kept kissing him, shoving their hips together with a whimper. “Let me,” he murmured in a deep rumble when John tried taking them both in hand. His hand was big enough to grasp both of their cocks, and their pre-come mixed together, creating a slick glide. It was the first time they were rubbing against each other like this, and they should have done this days ago.  It felt better than he’d imagined, and at one point, he held back a groan long enough to chuckle, “Your reading was right, about the friction.”

“Oh god, shut _up_ ,” Sherlock moaned into his ear.

His hips jerked upwards in hard, quick thrusts, the slide of Sherlock’s cock against his making John bite his pale shoulder to keep from crying out. It was two minutes more of deep breaths and groans in his ear before hot release spilled against John, and the intensity of it caused his back to arch, and he came hard into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock let go of them and plopped down on his side, a leg still curled around John. His hand was covered with their release, and he was panting against John’s neck, red in the face. He nuzzled his nose against John’s skin and kissed him. “I liked that.”

“I did, too,” John grinned. He was a little dazed by how good it felt. It was certainly a stress-reliever. He yawned, scratching his chest.

Sherlock sat up, leaned over the bed, and wiped his hand on the towel.

“Mmm, nice view,” John commented, slapping his buttock.

Sherlock huffed a breath and lay back down. “Childish.”

John just shrugged, yawning again, shutting his eyes. He felt Sherlock brush his hair from his forehead.

“You should nap,” Sherlock mumbled. “I still need to text Lestrade the details about two of the cases, anyway.”

John opened his eyes. Would he have one of those dreams again? He was so caught up with everything else which happened today that he forgot. “I’m not really that tired.”

“Nonsense. You haven’t gotten a full night of rest in two days.”

Of course he knew. “Well, I’ll lie here and relax, and if I sleep, I sleep, and if I don’t, I don’t.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock said.

John tried to keep himself awake for the rest of the night, but his head was on the uninjured side of Sherlock’s chest as he texted rapidly, muttering to himself about the cases, and his deep voice and heartbeat against John’s ear made his eyes slip shut against his will. He kept blinking awake, but Sherlock, the caring bastard, started to stroke his hair slowly and type with one hand.

John woke up five hours later, held by a sleeping Sherlock, from another weird dream. Would this ever end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this story will have, like 3 more chapters? We'll see. I'm posting this before bed so I hope there aren't any mistakes lol


	17. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes why he's having these dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now, my friends. I worried about there being too much exposition in this chapter, but tbh, we're over 70,000 words in lol. I don't want to drag this out.

Things got back to normal, or almost normal. Sherlock still had a couple weeks before he could go running about, but he was getting back in the zone, solving cases on their blogs. They didn’t hear from Mary again.

“Perhaps she’s not as smart as you thought,” Sherlock said smugly.

“I guess not,” John conceded.

He’d been dreaming for the past six days. He didn’t know how to stop it. How could one control their dreams? Was it even possible? He had to tell Sherlock. It was weirding him out.

“Every night?” Sherlock asked from his end of the sofa.

“Every night,” John confirmed from the other end, rubbing the sole of one of Sherlock’s bare feet. “I’m not saying it means anything,” he clarified, although the back of his mind didn’t agree with that. “But it’s really bothering me. When I wake up, you’re right there, and I know you’re there and you’re not upset, but. I don’t know. It’s getting old.”

The dreams were still all of Sherlock, a shattered expression on his face, alone in the flat, in silence. John wished something would at least change in the dreams, for some variety.

“It is odd,” Sherlock ran his finger over his bottom lip in thought. “I would think any nightmares involving me would involve injury or death, considering recent events. Sorry for that, again.”

John shook his head.

“But as you said,” he continued, “you know I’m here, and that I’m quite happy, I assure you. I know we have no control over our dreams--I dreamt of Mary when I was high in the hospital, and I wish I hadn’t--but the consistency is unusual.”

“Right, that’s what I’m saying. I’m not sure what’s causing this, or how to stop it.”

“I don’t know, either,” Sherlock admitted, flexing his toes. “Are you thinking about these dreams before you fall asleep, as a form of anxiety?”

“Usually,” John nodded, “but last night, I fell right asleep and wasn’t even thinking of it.” Sherlock had decided it was time to give his first blow job, and it zapped all the energy out of John. That wasn’t even enough to stop it.

“Every method for controlling dreams is pseudoscience at best,” Sherlock said.

“I know. I don’t think there’s a way to stop it, but I just needed to talk to someone about it.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, his face softening. “I’m glad you did. I knew you weren’t sleeping well, but I thought it was because of Mary.”

“Not anymore,” he gave Sherlock’s foot a squeeze. He sighed. He wasn’t sure if he felt that much better, but there wasn’t much either of them could do.

Sherlock sat up, leaning forward and reaching out a long arm to grab John’s hand. “Maybe it’ll pass,” he smiled lightly. “The mind is an odd thing.”

John squeezed his hand and his foot. “You’re flexible. Chest not hurting?”

“Only a little.”

“Good.”

Sherlock moved and kissed him. “It’ll be fine, John.”

* * *

It wasn’t.

This time, Sherlock was standing by the window, and Rosie was in his arms. She was crying, chubby cheeks red and wet. She was clutching Sherlock’s T-shirt as he pointlessly rocked her, his own face filled with dismay. Her crying was the first bit of noise to make it into a dream, and it was terrible. It had been so long since John had seen a glimpse of her, having no pictures of a non existent child, and he hated seeing her like this. They were alone in the flat. Where was he in this? Why did Sherlock have Rosie, and John wasn’t there?

John jolted awake, legs twitching. He was alone in the bed, and heard the shower running. He put his head in his hands, tears burning his eyes. He was ashamed of himself, because days had gone by when he didn’t think of Rosie. He had forgotten just how golden her hair was, and how dark her blue eyes were. Wait, if his mind created her image from memory, wouldn’t it have been fuzzy, after not seeing her for so long? It was the opposite; he could picture her more clearly now then he could have yesterday.

He lowered his hands, palms damp from his tears. An ominous feeling curled around his stomach like a vine. Something was wrong. It felt like he actually saw her, not dreamt of her. When he only dreamt of Sherlock, he chalked up the vividness of it all to the fact that he saw him every day.

The shower shut off.

John didn’t want Sherlock to know he was crying, so he wiped his eyes and hands on his pillowcase, and flipped the pillow over. He got back under the blankets, telling himself to relax. He couldn’t go back to sleep, firstly because of the confusion pounding at the base of his skull, and because it was already morning, and he rarely slept in.

A minute later, Sherlock came in, drying his hair, naked as the day he was born. His eyes landed on John.

“You normally don’t shower in the morning,” John commented.

“Before our relationship, I never started the day with dried semen on my stomach,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be sexy, but I’d rather wash it off.”

John smiled a little. “I don’t think it’s sexy, either. It’s a nasty feeling.”

Sherlock agreed, his hair fluffy and damp. He tossed the towel by the door. He got back in bed, staring at John. “Another dream.”

John swallowed. “Yeah.”

Sherlock was frowning. “You’re upset.”

He couldn’t bring himself to talk about Rosie, or the strange feeling he got from this dream in particular. It didn’t make sense, but Sherlock had no idea who she was. He couldn’t say a random baby popped into the picture, because that wouldn’t justify his sadness.

“I’m frustrated,” John muttered, rolling onto his side and away from Sherlock, not trusting his face. “It’s...there’s nothing to do. So.”

Sherlock came up behind him, pressing his chest to his back, wrapping an arm around his stomach. “It’s all right,” he said softly.

As upset as he was, John couldn’t ignore that deep voice by his ear and warm, naked body pressed against him. He couldn’t dwell on this, at least not right now. If he dreamt of Rosie again, he’d further examine it. He pushed the prickling in his gut away. “You realize you’re spooning me naked, hmm?”

“I...actually forgot about that,” he said, and sighed. “Damn, I just washed myself.”

John laughed halfheartedly. “We don’t have to have sex, you know.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Why not?”

“I was watching you sleep,” he stated. “I wanted to catch the first signs of your nightmare and try to prevent it. Clearly, that didn’t work,” he muttered.

“That’s how you knew I had a bad dream?”

“Yes, but it was written all over your face when you woke up. I tried reassuring you last night, whispering your name and telling you my name. In hindsight, it was rather stupid.”

“No,” John placed his hand over Sherlock’s, which was on his stomach. “You tried, and I appreciate it.” It was a nice attempt, albeit unsuccessful. “You don’t have to stay up worrying about me, though. I’ll be okay.”

He hoped his voice sounded more convincing to Sherlock's ears than his own.

* * *

John was foolish to hope Rosie wouldn’t appear in his dreams again. Now, she was always there, always being held by Sherlock, always upset. The image of her in his mind was crystal clear. On top of everything else, seeing her made him miss her. This happened for four straight nights, and he just didn’t get it. It could have just been that the dreams were a product of his mind missing Rosie, but that didn’t explain the dreams with Sherlock alone at all. He couldn’t ignore that.

“You were holding a baby,” he told Sherlock on the fourth day. “She was crying.”

“We don’t know any babies,” he said with a furrowed brow.

“No,” John said quietly. “We don’t.”

He tried to put on a happy face for Sherlock, shrug off his increasing anxiety once they got out of bed. It was a nice distraction when Sherlock let him in on a case he was working on from the blog, but now life felt like nothing _but_ a distraction from the dreams. Mary was gone, and he was with Sherlock; he was supposed to be happy.

It led to a small fight between them.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock grumbled into their kiss.

“Hm?” John hummed dimly.

Sherlock broke the kiss, his hand on John’s shoulder, a frown between his eyebrows, wrinkling his nose. “You’re not thinking of me. I can feel it.”

“Yeah, I am,” he denied, moving in to kiss him again.

“You’re not,” Sherlock moved his head back. His eyes darted across John’s face.

“Don’t deduce me,” John scolded, feeling self-conscious in a way that hadn’t bothered him since he first moved in with Sherlock.

“It’s what I do,” he said with a tinge of annoyance. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

“You’ve never gotten distracted while kissing?”

“No,” he replied seriously. “I’m always focused on you.”

John sighed, and lowered his hands from where they were placed on his hips. It was hard not getting irritated with Sherlock’s eyes right on him. He put a smile on his face. “I’m thinking of you when we kiss,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can’t lie to me. You’re thinking of your dreams.”

John crossed his arms over his chest, putting distance between them. “I can’t bloody help it, okay?”

Sherlock huffed a breath out of his nose, his impatience showing. “I know it’s bothering you, John, but they’re just dreams.”

“What if--” He cut himself off.

“What?” Sherlock asked narrowing his eyes.

His heart was a jackhammer. “Nothing.” The question that had been circling the back of his mind for over a week was too much to voice. It was building up, begging to be asked, but John was afraid. “Nothing,” he said sternly.

Sherlock pursed his lips, and walked over to the door.

“Where are you going?” John asked.

“The morgue,” Sherlock put his shoes on. “I haven’t examined a dead body in ages.”

“You’re really leaving?” John rubbed his eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a cold air of indifference.

When John was alone in the flat, he mused to himself that he never thought his first mini fight with Sherlock as a couple would be over something like this.

* * *

That night, John fell asleep on the sofa as he was watching television while Sherlock was still out. Finally, Sherlock spoke in his dream.

Dream Sherlock was in his chair, holding Rosie, who was whining into his chest. He looked haggard, close to how he looked during the Culverton case, only cleaner. He held her closer. “I know,” he croaked, resting his cheek on the top of her golden head. “I wish he were here, too.”

Like all the others, the dream ended as quickly as it began, but when John startled awake, it felt like someone took a sledgehammer to his heart. His hand was clutching his T-shirt over his heart, and he was breathing heavily out of his mouth.

 _What if they’re not dreams?_ he finally allowed his mind to fully form the question. He was shaking. He got up and paced around the sitting room. What would Sherlock do? He would go over the evidence, right?

Recap:

  * He entered this world through sleep
  * He never had recurring dreams like this before, and he’d been known to have nightmares of the same incident (the war, the Fall) over and over
  * He shouldn’t have been able to see Rosie so clearly, given how long it had been since he saw her
  * He was notably absent in the dreams
  * He was _missing_



He paused, stopping in front of the table by the window. What was he, crazy? That wasn’t enough to--what? To assume these were visions? _Look at yourself: you’re in a parallel dimension. How is any of this normal?_

John’s knees were weak, so he sat down in one of the chairs. He put his elbows on his knees, folding his hands and tucking them under his chin. Was it so crazy to assume that his living in this world meant he went missing in the other one? Was it crazy to assume that since he was transported here through sleep, he was able to see into the other world through dreams? He didn’t know how the fuck any of this worked, still, but that didn’t sound crazy. Maybe he was still crazy. Maybe this was all a coma dream. He dismissed the idea, though, knowing that the passage of time felt too real. It didn’t make him feel less crazy, though.

But the worst thing of all was the guilt crashing over John. If it were true, if he really did disappear from the other world, he left _his_ Sherlock, and Rosie. He fixed one universe, but completely screwed up another. A hard lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

 _His_ Sherlock.

This whole time--this whole goddamn time, he couldn’t stop thinking of the other Sherlock. He kept thinking of him, of his pain and how he’d never receive an apology, but John never considered that he was alone. He left him. He selfishly left him and his daughter so he could get a second chance, but why? So he could avoid all consequences for his actions? This Sherlock hadn’t been beaten by him, or left alone living in 221B while John stayed married to his would-be killer. John got off scot-free, but he hurt people _again_.

John was crying, head bowed, hands now gripping the sides of the chair painfully. Hot tears slid down his face in shame. What had he done? This Sherlock was still Sherlock, still the love of his life…

“But he’s not mine,” John whispered, nearly choking from the effort to keep himself quiet. This Sherlock deserved the John from _this_ timeline, before he married Mary--before he left him, before he hurt him. John knew he didn’t do those things here, but fucking hell, the other Sherlock was out there, hurting. He wanted to go back. He…

John sniffed. But would that leave this Sherlock alone? “God, no,” he whispered. He didn’t think this Sherlock deserved him, but this was also the man he shared a bed with. He knew Sherlock completely by now, and if he left him like Redbeard and Victor did, John didn’t think he would be able to survive it. He couldn’t do that.

But, what _was_ he supposed to do?

John sat there, tears drying on his cheeks, his muscles robbed of their energy. He thought of Rosie, losing her mother (as terrible as Mary was, Rosie didn’t know any of that), and now her father. Sherlock would take good care of her, he knew, but it wasn’t supposed to be like that.

He thought back to his first night here, when he suddenly woke up at the Landmark. Wait...John stood up. He woke up in the outfit he had been wearing the first time it happened, facial hair and all, and Mary was there. She had asked if he were all right. It was like his mind was put into another John’s body...Was there an other John? Why wasn’t he with Sherlock and Rosie?

“What if I just took his place?” he mumbled to himself, growing numb. What if the other him simply ceased to be with him here? Did that mean, if John were to go back, the other John would come back here?

“I’m officially nuts,” he shook his head. But his mind could come up with no other explanation. He stood there for a long time, thinking. If he knew this Sherlock would be okay, then he would go back. He’d want to, at least. But he didn’t even know how he got here in the first place. “I wanted a second chance,” he said under his breath, “I was certain about that. I fell asleep, and woke up here.” He took a deep breath. John didn’t know how much he believed in fate, but some greater power had to be at play for any of this to have happened at all; maybe he had to figure this out. Maybe he had to connect the dots before he could go back.

He stared into space, only realizing now that the television was still on from before. A feeling of finality overtook him. That was it, wasn’t it? He saw these visions until he figured it out. He was going to be sent back, wasn’t he? This brought fresh tears to his eyes. He briefly wondered what the fuck the point of this was, but he knew that he would have never made a move on the other Sherlock if this didn’t happen. If he stayed in his original world, life would have gone on unhappily. If fate existed, and John had a destiny, then it would be to make both Sherlocks happy.

That was it.

 _Maybe it’s a coincidence?_ John once asked Sherlock about a detail on a case.

 _Coincidence doesn’t exist,_ he replied. _The universe is rarely so lazy._

The answer had surprised him. However, at this point? He agreed. The concept of the universe had to exist, and some force was driving it. There was no other way any of this could have happened. His purpose in the universe was to ensure the happiness of his soul mate, in every way and place possible.

He would have laughed at this thought a few months ago. He couldn’t laugh if he tried now. John ran his hands through his hair. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It was dark in the sitting room (god, he’d been in a fog), but by the light of the screen, he could tell he was pale. John wiped his eyes. He was going to go to sleep tonight, and he was leaving. He could just feel it. He started crying silently again. This was the Sherlock he had all of their “firsts” with; he was really going to miss him.

John shut off the television, and went into their room. Sherlock was in bed, sleeping. John watched him from the doorway, hand over his mouth, holding back the sounds his throat threatened to make and tears steadily fell. The visions were haunting him, and now that he knew what they meant, there was no way he could stay in this world. He would never be happy again, knowing he was only making one Sherlock happy. Besides, their relationship was starting to get strained here. Sherlock really did deserve the other him. He hoped to god that he was right in how this all worked.

John closed his eyes. “Please, god, don’t let him be alone.”

Sherlock sighed, lifting his head off the pillow, squinting at John in the darkness.

John wiped his eyes, although his heart was aching at the sight of him. He was so sweet, so young.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m here,” John said shakily.

Sherlock snuffled. “You okay? Was it another dream?” he mumbled. “I’m sorry for leaving earlier. When I came home, you were sleeping and looked peaceful, so that’s why I left you.”

“Yeah, it was,” he cleared his throat, walking to the bed with trembling steps. “And it’s okay, love. It’s fine.”

“You don’t call me ‘love,’” Sherlock observed.

“I love you,” John told him. He got into bed, and immediately hugged him close.

“Oh,” he exhaled in surprise. “I love you too, John. You need a hug from the dream?”

“I need to hug you because I love you,” John said into his ear, arms around his shoulders, their heads on the same pillow. “And I’m always gonna love you. Doesn’t matter where I am--I’ll always love you.” He was shaking.

“John,” concern rose in Sherlock’s voice, “I know that, and I’ll always love you. You’re worrying me.”

“Don’t worry,” John kissed his hair. “I was just thinking of our time together.”

“That sounds slightly eerie,” Sherlock commented into his chest.

“It really isn’t.” His hand curled around the back of his head. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock relaxed a little, turning his face into John’s neck. “If you say so. How long have you been awake?”

“I dunno,” John stared at the wall, his pulse still faster than normal, and he didn’t think it was going to go down anytime soon. “I woke up and started thinking. Not too long, though. Have a good day at the morgue?” he asked, trying to sound normal.

“It could have been better,” he said, shifting so they could look at each other in the darkness. “It was a little boring, honestly,” he said, lips close to John’s.

John kissed him, willing himself not to get emotional at the idea that he might not kiss this Sherlock again after tonight. “I know you’re tired, but can I kiss you for a little?”

“If you insist,” he said playfully, and cupped John’s jaw with a kiss. His lips were soft and warm from sleep. The glide of his lips against John’s was slow and unhurried, with no trace of arousal. Kissing just to kiss. His foot lazily ran against John’s ankle, his toes warmed from the duvet. John wanted this forever, and damn it, he would have it. He was going to have this with his Sherlock no matter what, and if the universe were kind, this Sherlock would still have this with him.

“Do you believe in fate?” John asked suddenly, breaking off the kiss.

Sherlock blinked at him curiously. “You’re in a strange mood tonight.”

“Well, do you?” he asked softly.

Sherlock’s thoughtful sigh warmed his face. “Mycroft and I never thought that the world functions completely at random. There are no such things as coincidence. Certain things wrap up too nicely for coincidences to exist.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock conceded, yawning. “Why?”

John pressed a small kiss to the seam of his lips. “I think, as painful as things were, our lives happened in such a way to guarantee we’d be together.”

“John,” he chuckled softly, “you’re suggesting fate put us together?”

“Yes,” he said seriously, stroking Sherlock’s cheek with his knuckles.

Sherlock smiled a pure, happy smile. “Hm. I think you’re pretty ridiculous, but sometimes, ridiculous things can be true.”

John pressed their lips together because looking at Sherlock was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t let Sherlock see the wetness in his eyes; he didn’t want him to be stressed. “I’m so glad we found each other,” he said against his lips, but his voice was hoarse.

“I am, too,” Sherlock said, pecking his lips, “but you’re getting worked up, John.”

“I’m okay,” John brushed the tips of their noses together. “I promise.” And as anxious as he was about his theory being wrong, he actually was starting to feel okay, making peace with this place.

Sherlock tangled his legs with John, pulling the duvet over their shoulders. “You probably don’t want to sleep again, but we can lie here and be close.”

“Sounds perfect. You’re tired, though.”

“I can stay awake.”

“Mmm, sure.”

They fell quiet, watching each other, the sound of their quiet breathing only broken by a car passing by the flat outside. With his legs intertwined with Sherlock’s under the soft duvet and sheets in the nearly silent, early hours of the morning, John got the distinct impression that his work was done here. He watched Sherlock’s eyelids droop and flutter open before they stayed closed. Once John was sure he was asleep, he let out a trembling sigh and kissed his forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered, “but you, the other you needs me.” He gazed over Sherlock’s calm, sleeping face. “I just hope you’ll have me, too. Or, another me.” He laughed through his nose. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I just wake up here tomorrow?”

Sherlock’s lower lip twitched with a grunt.

“Sorry,” John said under his breath, “keep sleeping.”

Sherlock smacked his lips, and still again, letting out a soft, sleepy mumble. John stared at him for a few more minutes, savoring this time and the sight of his love, years younger and at ease. John closed his eyes, wrapping an arm around him.

_Here we go again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all okay with my sending John back; it's something I decided quite some time ago. I hope it doesn't feel like John's made this decision too fast, as well, but I felt like there was enough of a build-up.  
> I'm publishing this while I'm studying so let me know if there are any errors~


	18. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo listen, thank you so god damn much for getting this past 1,000 kudos. I'm really stunned, because none of my stories ever got to this point, and I never thought they would. Life has been stressful, but seeing the kudo count go up each day really made me feel good. Thank you <3 (this is probably the height of my fic writing endeavors, isn't it? lol)

It was like suddenly, his sleeping brain remembered what was happening, and immediately woke John up. He bolted upright in the bed, breathing heavily, his heart tingling with nerves. His eyes met a room seemingly unfamiliar to him, and it took him a moment to remember this was the room he used to share with Mary. Gasping, John looked down next to him, and saw that the bed was empty, and that he was no longer under the soft sheets and tan duvet he’d grown accustomed to, but the uncomfortable, blue duvet he’d slept under with Mary.

“It worked,” he whispered. “Oh my fucking god,” he put his hands on his face in astonishment, “I was actually right. It fucking worked.” Even though he thought this would happen, he was still stunned. He wasn’t crazy, after all. He figured it out. His dreams really were visions-- _Rosie!_

John jumped out of bed, running out of the room on unsteady legs. “Rosie?” he called out, not sure if she were here or at the flat with Sherlock. He ran to her room, anyway, and skidded to a halt in front of her crib. Relief flooded his veins.

“Oh god, Rosie!” he couldn’t resist picking her up, although we woke her in the process. He hugged her tightly, planting quick kisses to her soft, golden hair as she whimpered in confusion. “Daddy missed you,” he told her, a his eyes growing misty. “I’m sorry I left. I didn’t even know what was happening before it was too late.”

She seemed a little grumpy from being woken up, but that was about it.

“How long was I gone?” he asked aloud. He would have to check the date in a minute. But for right now, he arranged Rosie so his arms were supporting her bum, and she was almost eye level with him. He took in her face, which he hadn’t seen in person for months. “You’re even prettier than I remembered,” he stroked her chubby cheek with his thumb.

“Uh,” she said to him.

He hugged her to his chest again, feeling the warmth of her against his heart. God, he didn’t know how much he missed Rosie, and really wanted to take care of her. “You hungry, hm? You need a nappy change?”

John changed her nappy and sat with her as she munched on dry cereal in her height chair. He wanted to go see Sherlock, but he needed to spend time with her. While she ate, John got his phone, and the date was 8th February 2017. It was about a month after Sherlock’s birthday, after the incident with Culverton.

“Was I only gone one night?” he asked himself. That would explain why Rosie was here without any other adult in the flat, but he was left with more questions. What about the visions he saw? Did they not really happen? Rosie wouldn’t give him answers, but maybe Sherlock would. John didn’t know how he would approach the subject, but he knew one thing: he had to tell Sherlock how he felt. He wouldn’t keep them apart for a single day longer. He knew Sherlock loved him, and the road ahead might not be easy, especially because John treated him so fucking badly in this world, but he would spend the rest of his life making it up to him. He couldn’t let Sherlock go on in unhappiness to preserve his own emotions and sense of guilt.

He sighed a little, and decided to delete all pictures of Mary from his phone while he waited for Rosie to finish.

“We’ve got to go see Sherlock today,” he told Rosie as he carried her back to his room. “I want to spend more time with you, and I promise I will, but this needs to be done.”

Rosie fussed a little as John changed her into her warm, pink bunny onesie, but otherwise had no protest. He put her into the pram with her favorite purple cat plushie, not just to keep her happy during their journey to Baker Street, but because he would have to drop her off at Mrs. Hudson’s at least for a few minutes. He didn’t really want to put her into someone else’s hands so quickly after his return, but the conversation he was about to have with Sherlock was too serious for any distractions. He was determined to set things straight as quickly as he could, and then all three of them could live a (relatively) normal, happy life.

* * *

“Hello, John!” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” he said for once in his life. “Listen, I need to talk to Sherlock about something really important right now, and I need you to keep an eye on Rosie for just a little bit. I promise I’ll be back down for her soon, but we seriously need to talk.”

“She’s always welcome here,” the smile faded from Mrs. Hudson’s face. “But, is something wrong, John?”

“Not at all,” he shook his head. “I just--figured some things outs. If all goes well, I’ll tell you later.”

“Well, all right,” she said, and turned her attention to Rosie. “Hello, love,” she cooed. “Aren’t you adorable today?”

John left them together and marched up the stairs with more determination than he ever had in his life, hiss heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears. _I’m going to tell him,_ he said to himself for the twentieth time today. He remembered Sherlock’s troubled past, and how it led to heartbreak last time, but John would be able to go through that again, because he knew he was loved. He could take the rejection again, knowing the true reasons behind it.

John opened the door, and found Sherlock standing by the window across the room in his red dressing gown. He looked at John in surprise. He was thinner than the other Sherlock, still recovering from the throes of addiction just a handful of weeks ago. His shoulders were hunched more, weighed down by an unseen pressure, and there were lines around his eyes that weren’t there three years ago.

He was John’s.

John could have cried just looking at him, but damn it, he cried a bloody river in the other world. No more tears (for now).

“John, hello,” Sherlock said, turning to fully face him. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

No words sat on John’s tongue, but he decided he didn’t need any right now. He had to let Sherlock know how he felt right away. John shut the door firmly behind him, strode right over to him, watched those light eyes widen and pale eyebrows furrow, and pulled Sherlock into his arms firmly.

“O-oh,” Sherlock breathed. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve missed you,” John sighed, chin resting on his shoulder.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Sherlock said in confusion, his body stiff in John’s arms.

 _But I have._ He gave him a small squeeze, and pulled back. “I, um, I had a dream,” he said, “that we were apart. I’d left you for some reason.”

Sherlock looked like he didn’t entirely know what was going on, but responded, “Actually, I had an odd dream, too.”

His heart stopped. “You did?” he tried not to sound urgent. “Tell me.”

“Well,” he looked into the distance, as if trying to visualize his dream, “it was vague, but you were lost. I didn’t know why, but I tried to find you, and couldn’t. I think I had Rosie, because you were gone for a long time. That’s all I remember, though.”

His Sherlock and Rosie really did get hurt, but it seemed like their memories were fading. “It’s like our dreams synced up.”

“Impossible,” he dismissed.

His quick response made John laugh. “Probably,” he admitted. Not waiting any longer and pushing away all traces of doubt, John curled a hand around his side, and kissed him. He braced himself. He could do this. He would give Sherlock space, let him cope with things, but this time, he absolutely would not let him get high. They would go through the shock together, and John would be understanding when he pulled away. He knew the truth. He would--

Sherlock’s lips pressed against his.

John pulled back, shocked. “You’re kissing me back?”

Sherlock looked at him like he grew ten heads. “Yes?” he answered hesitantly. His face fell. “Was I...was I not supposed to?”

“No!” John shook his head. “I mean, yes, you were supposed to. I was just really surprised.”

Sherlock stared at him, and then shook his head, incredulous. “Why would you kiss me if you didn’t think I’d do it too?” It was almost funny how completely baffled he was, his tone resembling a confused, squawking bird.

But, laughing probably wasn’t the best response. John thought about it for a moment, because he couldn’t just tell Sherlock he knew all about his childhood traumas, and yet he was a terrible liar. The again, he mused, he did a damn good job of lying about what he knew in the other world. “I might be totally off,” John took his hand off his side to give him space, “but I didn’t think you’d react to this well, emotionally. I thought you’d push me away because, not long ago, you rejected romance.”

Understanding, and a little bit of embarrassment, filled his eyes. “Ah. Yes, I see what you mean now.” His face was red, and he shook his head once more, struggling to process. “Hold on, I’m, I can’t think very well.”

“That’s fine,” John let out a breath, wondering what was different this time that led to a more pleasant outcome.

Sherlock was pressing his lips together, and rubbing the tips of his fingers together nervously. His eyes were open and soft, unsure and glistening. And yet, he wasn’t going into the early stages of a breakdown, like before. He swallowed audibly. “Can I be honest?”

“I want you to be,” John said sincerely.

He lowered his eyes to the floor. “I never wanted this--no, I never wanted _to_ want this, but I have, and only told you I didn’t because I thought it was one-sided. Plus,” he lifted his gaze sheepishly, “when we were having that conversation about the Woman, and yes, I know that’s what you’re thinking of, you were still grieving Mary. You _are_ still grieving her, which is another reason why you’ve taken me by surprise,” his nose crinkled in confusion. “I wasn’t about to tell you how I felt at that moment, even if I did think you felt the same.” He sighed a little. “I’m still wondering if I’m actually high and hallucinating right now.”

“You're _not_ high--?”

“No, no,” he dismissed right away. “Sorry, bad joke.”

John nodded, mulling over Sherlock’s words. “Okay, one thing at a time, and I’ll start with the easy stuff first. It was considerate of you to read the room, because you’re right, I don’t think I would have been ready to start anything with you on that day. But, you’re seriously wrong in another way; I’m not grieving Mary anymore. I--” he chuckled dryly “--I actually really hate her.” He began to outright laugh at Sherlock’s stunned expression. “I hate her,” he cackled, feeling like a loon. “God, Sherlock, do I hate her.” It just occurred to him that there was a weight on his finger. He lifted his hand. “See this?” he referred to his wedding band. He took it off and chucked it over his shoulder, where it landed on the hardwood floor behind him with a clatter. “There.”

Sherlock’s mouth was open in shock. “John. I don’t think anyone has surprised me as much as you have in the past two minutes and forty-seven seconds. I,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “what is going on?”

John giggled, and tried to stop himself. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t be laughing. I just feel free now.”

“That’s, that’s good,” Sherlock’s expression softened a little. “It’s good to see you laughing like this again. Why do you feel this way about Mary? What changed?”

John sighed angrily. “Sherlock, she tried to kill you. She was never sorry about it. Never. Her stunt at the aquarium with Norbury was too little too late. Why didn’t she ever apologize before? I realized just how...how _awful_ she was. She lied, and lied, and lied,” he said in exasperation. “She left me and her baby without any consideration for how her bloody James Bond run away mission would impact us. She was selfish, and she had convinced me that she was different, and I fell for it. But, I’ve done a lot of thinking, and you know what? She wanted to do nothing but hurt us, especially you. I think she hated you,” he said bluntly, “and I could never forgive her for that, or shooting you. I’m tired of her ruining us, and I want to leave her in the past.” He took a breath. He rambled a bit, there.

“Well,” Sherlock said quietly after a long pause, “I don’t exactly disagree with you on anything. I only kept quiet because I thought you wanted to stay with her.”

Guilt bubbled in John’s stomach. “I’m sorry you had to deal with her, and that you felt like you couldn’t tell your best friend something.” He looked at a fading mark next to his eyebrow, where John had punched him. “I need to apologize to you, right here, right now, before we could move forward.”

“Apologize for what?” he asked.

 _God,_ he didn’t even think anything was wrong. “Everything, Sherlock!” he threw his hands in the air. “For the past three years of our lives. I’m sorry I married Mary, I’m sorry I stayed with her after she tried to kill you, I’m sorry for blaming you for her death, I’m sorry for pushing you away--” he stopped. “That letter,” he remembered. “That fucking letter I wrote you. I’m sorry for that, too. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but that’s no fucking excuse.”

“John,” Sherlock held up his hand, trying to placate him.

“No, I need to do this. You need to hear it. I’m sorry for taking out all of my anger on you. I’m so, _so_ fucking sorry for that day in the morgue. I went way too far, further than what’s in any way acceptable, and…” He trailed off, feeling his throat grow tight. “I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you and your pain didn’t matter.”

“You didn’t do that,” Sherlock denied softly, grasping John by the shoulders. “I don’t want you to think that. John, listen. Neither of us were well a month ago. You don’t hold my nearly dying from drugs against me, and I don’t hold your outburst against you.”

“They’re not the same,” John shook his head firmly. “Not at all, Sherlock. You were high, dying, and needed help, and what the fuck did I do, hm?” he smiled bitterly. “I hurt you. Why do you forgive me? Really, why?”

Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides. “I just said you weren’t in--”

“There has to be something more.” He remembered the other Sherlock in the hospital _“Because after what I’ve done to you, you’d have a right to hurt me!”_ He stared Sherlock directly in the eye. “Do you think you deserved it?”

Sherlock blinked. “It wasn’t an issue.”

“That wasn’t the answer to my question.” His heart ached. “I’ve gotten this feeling over the years that you still blame yourself for your time away.” The flinch that Sherlock couldn’t suppress was all John needed to know. “I’m right. Look,” he grabbed Sherlock’s arm before he could respond, “what I did? You did nothing to deserve that. I’m sorrier than I could possibly say, but there’s another thing. I forgive you for leaving, Sherlock. It really hurt, and I think it always will, in a way, but I know you had to do it.”

Sherlock licked his lips, growing tense, but didn’t say anything.

John lowered his voice. “I really don’t know why you’ve forgiven me,” he admitted, “but I needed you to know I completely regret it, and that I forgive you for everything you think I’d be angry with you for, before we could go further.”

Sherlock was quiet, a pensive look on his face. “You’re really not angry with me for Moriarty anymore?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“God, Sherlock, no,” John put his hand on his face. “I love you.”

And this was when he broke. He blinked quickly, trying to force away the moisture rapidly filling his eyes, his lower lip giving the slightest quiver. “You do?”

John was a fool thinking he wouldn’t cry. He smashed their lips together, and he wasn’t sure if the wetness on his face was from his own tears or Sherlock’s. They were really breathing into each other’s mouths more than kissing, and John’s hand was shaking on Sherlock’s cheek. “I hate that you’re shocked to hear that,” John whispered against his lips. “I’m sorry you never knew how much I loved you.”

Sherlock’s breath was heavy and audible. “And I’m sorry for shutting you out, with Moriarty, and with how I always felt.”

“All I want is for you to tell me how you feel,” John pulled his head back a little, “and for you to feel completely free around me.” He saw how bright Sherlock’s eyes were, and tried to smile reassuringly. “Okay? Please, don’t keep anything from me.”

Sherlock sniffed, ducking his head and wiping his eye with his wrist. “Sorry for crying,” he muttered.

John forgot this Sherlock never cried in front of him like this. “Sherlock, trust me, it doesn’t bother me.”

Sherlock lifted his face, a cautious look in his eye. He bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve never said this to anyone before,” he murmured. “It’s hard, because I told myself not to do this for practically my whole life.”

John wrapped his arms around his waist. “Yes?”

He closed his eyes, like the words about to leave his lips were painful to articulate. “I love you, too,” his voice cracked. He released a harsh breath, the corners of his eyes crinkling, cheeks flaming. He trembled slightly in John’s arms. “I tried to stop myself from feeling, but I couldn’t.”

John let him keep his eyes closed for the sake of his own comfort. “When did you accept that you felt this way?” he asked.

“I think…” He opened his eyes, but his gaze was on John’s chest. “I think it was your wedding. It was a wake-up call. Seeing you officially, legally partnered with someone else put a--sense of hurt in me,” he admitted, uncomfortable, “which I couldn’t deny.”

 _Oh._ There was never a wedding for the other Sherlock to experience. Was his wedding really that traumatic for Sherlock, that it broke through the pain of his childhood? Did Sherlock have a breakdown after his wedding? _He did go back on drugs,_ John remembered. “I’m sorry for that, like I said. I didn’t know how much that day hurt you.”

“You don’t have to be,” Sherlock mumbled. “You loved her. At one point, at least,” he amended.

“I did, back then,” John agreed, “but never as much as I love you. And for the record, I regretted the marriage even before she shot you.”

Sherlock hummed, the faintest hint of a grin on his lips. “I haven’t seen you this blunt and determined in years, perhaps. It reminds me of when we first met.”

“I feel like myself again, finally,” he confessed, his heart feeling an intense wave of relief, over everything. This was where he was supposed to be, and things were going really well. “I had an epiphany of sorts, though it took me too long to get there. I know I just unloaded a lot on you, so how are you feeling?”

The question seemed to have surprised him. “I’m great,” he said frankly. He ducked his head a little again, not being used to sharing his emotions this openly like the other Sherlock was by the end. “You’ve given me the shock of my life, but,” he grinned, “I’m happy. This is a lot to take in, admittedly.” He bit his bottom lip. “There’s still something that doesn’t quite feel real about this; I think it’s because I didn’t consider this to be a possibility.”

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s cheek, wet from a tear. He kissed him, and kept his lips on his skin after, closing his eyes and breathing him in. “You need to process things for a minute?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,’ he murmured. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“No,” John’s arms tightened around his slim waist, “I can stay here with you.”

His lean body moved up and down with a shaky sigh. “Okay. Just, a moment, please.”

John let out an agreeing hum, keeping his eyes closed, his heart thumping, wanting to pepper his face with kisses and tell Sherlock he loved him over and over. He would, when Sherlock was calmer. John thought of his other Sherlock, and prayed he was happy, too. He felt warm arms tentatively wrap around his back.

“I don’t know what to do,” his said meekly.

“It’s okay. I’ll take what you give me. I _want_ whatever you’ll give me.”

“You’re the most important person in my life,” Sherlock breathed against his cheek. “I want to get it right, because I spent so long getting it wrong.”

“That’s my line,” John smirked against his skin. “But really, don’t worry. I love _you_ , Sherlock, as a person. I want to be with you. That’s all.”

Sherlock only had to turn his face by a hair to seal their lips together. His mouth was warm, and honestly, a little awkward--pressing a little too hard, lips clamped shut a little too tightly, but John knew, from experience, that he would catch on.

With the other Sherlock, there was a pained desperation to when they first really kissed, but this time, it was like they were breathing a long, deserved sigh of relief. It felt like they spent too many miserable years to be upset now. Sherlock’s arms slid up his body and wrapped around his neck, his breathing heavy already. His chest heaved against John’s.

“You okay?” John asked.

Sherlock broke the kiss, and he gazed at John with red eyes and a pout pushing his bottom lip forward. There was weariness to his face now. “I only wish this happened sooner,” he said quietly, remorsefully.

“I know,” John’s heart ached for him. “You have no idea how long I’ve spent wishing the same. But,” he took Sherlock’s hand in his, “I want to be _done_ with all that shit. I’m tired of being upset about everything every day.” Hs thumb brushed over his knuckles.

“Yes. Me too,” his eyes grew wet again.

John kissed him softly, wanting to soothe the tears away. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, and moved their lips together in a slow, soft glide. His toes curled when the sounds of their kiss filled his ears. This felt right, more than his other first kiss with Sherlock. This was where he belonged. John coaxed Sherlock’s mouth open, shivering when he felt hot breath in his own mouth. Sherlock’s lips were insistent against his, albeit uncoordinated. His warm hand cupped John’s cheek, and his fingers tightened in his short hair. He broke the kiss, let out a harsh breath, and kissed John hard.

“Mmm, Sherlock,” John breathed, heart fluttering. He liked when Sherlock held him.

“You want me to be honest with you?” he asked.

“Of course,” John shifted so their lips were no longer touching.

“I--need another moment, please,” he whispered. His thumb stroked over John’s cheek, and his eyes opened. They were a deep blue, darker than usual, and vulnerable. “I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he spoke quietly, rawness in his voice. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

A voice in John’s head asked, _Even after all this?_ But he kept quiet.

“You...John.” He sniffed. “This is all I ever wanted, but my stomach is in knots,” he said, turning slightly desperate, eyes pleading for help. “Look at me,’ he stepped back, holding out his arms with his palms up, a scowl on his face. “I’m a forty year-old man who’d never been properly kissed until now.”

“And I’m a widower who stayed married to an assassin until her dying breath!” John threw his hands in the air. “At least your situation is bloody normal.”

Sherlock slowly lowered his arms, and then started laughing dryly.

John smirked. “Yeah, see? Whatever argument you were trying to make was bollocks.”

Sherlock’s grin faded. “I only wish this feeling of hesitation would go away. I don’t want to hesitate, but,” the helplessness filled his eyes again. “Why am I like this?” he asked in frustration.

John had grown accustomed to touching him. This Sherlock had not had the opportunity. This Sherlock spent much longer being untouched, and had convinced himself he had no chance with John. He may have been reacting more positively this time, but it was still a giant emotional step for him.

“Because you told yourself to stop loving me,” John moved closer to him, their bodies brushing up against each other. “Right?”

He nodded silently.

A hand squeezed around John’s heart. “Tell me how to make you feel better,” he told him. “Anything you want, to make things more comfortable.”

Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed, blinking. After a pause, he said, “You had the right idea earlier.” And then he was curling his arms around John, burying his face into his neck and shoulder.

John’s cradled the back of his head with his hand, fingers in his thick, soft curls. He wrapped his other arm over his shoulders, heart thumping hard. He held him close, his chest growing heavier when he felt Sherlock hold him tighter.

“You’re my heart, John Watson,” he said, voice as soft as silk. “I want to kiss you,” he grew softer, “just in a few minutes, okay? I don’t think my pulse has slowed down in fifteen minutes.”

John was nuzzling his nose into his hair, torn between smiling with glee and tearing up over Sherlock’s tender words. “Take as long as you need,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll always be right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that chapter wound up being a really longer conversation lol. I wanted this Sherlock to react differently than the other one, but he's still pretty damaged from s3 and 4, you know?  
> Anyway, I *think* the next chapter is the last one, and don't worry, there will be Sex. Thank you all for reading along this far <3


	19. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end, my friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last chapter! I can hardly believe it. Thank you so much for reading this far <3

Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his warm lips against John’s cheek. His lips trailed to John’s mouth, and they started kissing in earnest again. His lips were insistent, but the breaths from his nose were shallow.

“I don’t know how to process this,” he admitted, barely detaching himself from John’s lips in order to get the words out. “I still don’t. Every time we start kissing, I feel like my brain is overloaded.”

“I know it’s hard, but you don’t have to think about what we’re doing. Just--”

“Feel?” Sherlock asked. “Were you going to tell me to just feel?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, John,” his eyebrows furrowed, “why must you sound like a hero from a romance novel?”

 _He’s just nervous,_ John knew. _Make him laugh._ “Because I’m your hero in shining armor, ready to sweep you off your feet?”

His lips wobbled, caught between a scowl and a grin. “First of all, I didn’t realize blue cardigans qualified as shining armor now. Secondly, you couldn’t pick me up if you tried, and you know it.”

“Don’t try me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him, and it seemed like his eyes were scanning John’s arms. “Hm. Maybe you could. Don’t.”

As tempted as John was, he dropped it. For now. “I was serious before, though. I know it’s hard for you. You’ve thought your way through everything your whole life. But, there’s nothing to think about here. I’m not going to leave you, or laugh at you, or mock you, or whatever it is you’re afraid of once you lose control. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” he clarified, “but I have a feeling you do.”

Sherlock sighed through his nose. “Since when were you able to read me so well?”

“Since I became a hero from a romance novel,” he dismissed.

Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor. “I want to do something--intimate.” The difficulty he had in getting the words out was audible. His face slowly turned pink. “I don’t know exactly what, I don’t care exactly what.” He swallowed, his mouth set in a hard line. “I want to be close. Just--do it, John. Something. I can’t get it out.”

John cupped his cheek and spared him further discomfort, running his thumb over his pink lips. “You don’t have to say anymore, okay?” His heart lurched when Sherlock’s soft eyes gazed straight into his, unwavering, unblinking. He knew how much Sherlock held himself back from intimacy and why. He wouldn’t bring any of that up now (or ever, since he figured Sherlock should tell him on his own one day, on his terms), but it was definitely something he had to take into consideration. But maybe, John had to rip the band-aid off. If he went all in for their first time, maybe Sherlock would feel significantly less uncomfortable after that, unlike the other Sherlock, who was shy until the end (not that it was a problem for _him_ , but it clearly seemed to be a problem for this Sherlock).

John knew what he wanted to do, so he kissing Sherlock again, hard. As their mouths moved together, he slowly backed Sherlock up until they reached the sofa.

Sherlock seemed surprised that they’d moved. “Hm? Want me to sit down?”

“Mhm.”

They were on the sofa together, and John remembered how much Sherlock liked his neck kissed and sucked. He had the same reaction in this world, trembling and struggling to hold back his groans, clinging to John. His mouth opened in a gasp when John bit his neck, and he grew hard in his trousers. His lips were moist and swollen from kisses, eyes black with arousal.

John started to feel himself get hard. “Let’s take off each other’s clothes,” he whispered in his ear, “so we’re equal, yeah?”

“Mmmph,” Sherlock whined behind his lips, which were pressed together until he bit the bottom one nervously. He nodded, reaching a hesitant hand up to John’s collar.

John brought their lips together again, figuring it would be easier for Sherlock if both of their eyes were closed (and although this wasn’t exactly his first time with Sherlock, he wasn’t exactly calm, either. How could he be?). He felt warm hands tugging and pulling at his clothes are their lips glided together wetly. He teased and pulled at Sherlock’s bottom lip gently, sucking it, his hand running over his broad chest. Sherlock was starting to pick up the idea of open-mouthed kissing, and was tentatively trying it, meeting John’s lips with soft kisses. John breathed deeply, feeling the familiar tingle of arousal in his abdomen, sending shivers down his body. He was nibbling Sherlock’s lower lip when he realized he was being tapped on the shoulder.

“Hm?” he opened his eyes.

“I can’t get your shirt off like this,” Sherlock said, a little out of breath, but seemingly less apprehensive.

“Oh, yeah.” John sat up and removed his cardigan and shirt underneath, tossing it on the cushion behind them. “There.”

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s chest with his hand. “Hm.”

“Hm?”

“For some reason, I expected you to have more chest hair.”

John snickered. “Really? Are you disappointed?”

“Only in my false deduction,” he said with a small grin.

John went back to kissing him, hoping to keep him more or less at ease. He pressed wet kisses to his jaw, knowing he would like it, and the low sound of Sherlock’s grunt made John’s cock pulse in his pants. His kisses turned into sucks, and then Sherlock’s hands were on his bare back and shoulders, smoothing up and down, and then, suddenly, their hips were grinding together. _When did that happen?_ John’s thought came in fuzzy through his growing haze of lust. He stopped kissing (biting) Sherlock’s jaw to look at him.

Sherlock’s lips were parted and his eyes were shut tightly, his face red, his fringe starting to stick to his forehead from sweat. His hips were moving against John’s. Did he even know he was doing this? It felt good, and it was difficult for John to hold back a moan as he reached full hardness.

He wanted to check in, though. “You good?” John rasped. He cleared his throat. “You all right?”

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes and the movement of his hips slowed, but he nodded jerkily. But then, he covered his face with his hands. Before John could ask him again, he removed his hands. “John.” He gulped, and opened his eyes. They were shiny, and slightly frightened. It reminded John of the other Sherlock. “Please, hurry,” he mumbled, his words dripping with embarrassment. “I can’t do this much longer.”

“But you don’t want to stop?” John asked, brushing the soft curls away from his forehead. (He realized Sherlock was lying on his back, and he was kneeling. When the fuck had that happened, too?)

“No,” he said, and inhaled shakily. “I feel like I’m going to _burst_ ,” he turned his head to the side, hips shifting underneath John’s, “and I’m not used to this, so relieve it.” He turned his head to look at John with timid eyes. “Please, I need, something,” he said, frowning, “this feeling is unbearable to drag out.”

“We can work on your patience later,” John smoothed his hair back from his forehead again, tenderly.

“I need you now,” Sherlock admitted in a small voice. He grasped John’s arm gently. “Now that we’re together, I feel like I’m falling,” his fingers tightened, voice ragged, “it’s so much. John, I love you.” His voice was cracking, and he noticed it. “Why am I doing this? Why--John?”

“Shhh,” John stroked his thumb over his red cheek, his chest heavy, pulse pounding. “I love you, too, Sherlock. You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you right now, okay? Trust me, and I’ll make you feel better.” His voice sounded deep and husky in his ears, but it was hoarse more from emotion than arousal.

“Okay,” Sherlock let out a breath, lifting his head and kissing him soundly.

John had been right in that Sherlock basically needed the band-aid ripped off, so he had to get to work right away. He tugged at Sherlock’s belt as they kissed. Sherlock got the idea and with fumbling hands, undid his belt and lifted his hips. They got his belt off, and started pulling his pants and trousers down.

Sherlock whimpered into John’s mouth, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his neck, his kisses turning into open-mouthed pants.

“Lift up so we can get these off all the way,” John whispered in his ear, “and I’ll make you feel so good.”

Sherlock complied, his blush down his neck, and likely on his chest. It was then that John realized his shirt and dressing down were still on, although the latter was untied and half hanging off the sofa.

“Want to take your shirt off? Are you hot?” John asked.

“A little,” he said, and sat up to shimmy out of the dressing gown and take off his shirt. Since he was already feeling vulnerable, John undressed completely, too. He didn’t think he was exactly succeeding in making Sherlock feel calm, but if he were honest with himself, freeing his cock from the constraints of his jeans and pants was a relief.

Sherlock was lying beneath him, red from his cheekbones to his heaving chest, arms folded over his flat stomach. He averted his eyes and tossed his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh _god_ , John, please--touch me,” his voice grew quiet with his command.

John bit his bottom lip when he looked down at the length of his cock, almost fully hard. The other Sherlock didn’t last long with their first time, only needing a small amount of physical contact to come. John knew how to bring him to bliss quickly. He ran his hands down Sherlock’s strong, creamy thighs, watching his cock twitch. John slid his hands underneath Sherlock’s knees, and lifted his legs.

“What?” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him.

Heart pounding, John knelt down as far as he could, and gripped Sherlock’s hips. He lifted Sherlock’s pelvis so that his legs were hooked over his shoulders. Nearly shaking with anticipation, John pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s hole, and licked the sensitive skin. Cock throbbing at the sound of Sherlock’s startled moan, John licked at him, into him, taking his tongue out and then sliding it back in.

John began thrusting his tongue in and out of his body, his own cock leaking due to Sherlock’s gasping moans. His inner walls felt hot and tight around John’s tongue, and he couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like around his cock. Sherlock’s thighs were trembling over John’s shoulders, letting out a moan with each harsh breath. John lapped at Sherlock’s entrance, teasing, and shoved his tongue back into the hot, tight opening, sliding in as far as he could go.

“Uhh! Nngh!” Sherlock cried. His hand flew down to his cock, desperately tugging and whimpering John’s name. He jerked himself off furiously, and with only a few more thrusts from John’s tongue, he was coming, biting his lip to muffle his loud moan into a stifled groan.

John sat up slightly, still holding Sherlock’s legs over his shoulder, and watched his cock spurt the last of his release on his stomach and chest. Sherlock’s arm was thrown over his face, and he was breathing hard out of his mouth. His curls were wet and splayed out against the throw pillow, looking like a halo around his head.

John gently lowered his shaking legs onto the sofa cushions. He was rock hard, but he pushed it aside for a moment. “Sherlock?” John cleared his throat, and wiped the excess saliva from his mouth. “Sherlock, you okay?”

He took in more deep breaths through his mouth, and then nodded slowly. He lowered his arm onto his chest, and his eyes were glassy with his afterglow. He sat up, a little unsteady, and threw his arms around John’s neck, hiding his in his shoulder.

“Did you like it?” John asked, genuinely curious. Personally, he loved that Sherlock lost control so quickly.

Sherlock nodded. “Oh,” he said suddenly, and looked down. “You need to…”

John licked his lips, his cock so hard it was aching. “It won’t take much,” he said with a sheepish grin.

With a curious, hesitant gaze which didn’t leave John’s eyes, Sherlock wrapped his large, warm hand, a little moist with sweat, around his cock. He started stroking. “Is this okay?” he asked genuinely.

John’s mouth dropped open and he threw his head back, desperately needing more. “Yeah j-just a little more pressure.” Sherlock tightened his grip slightly, squeezing and stroking quicker. John was still kneeling, and his legs were feeling a little unsteady. He grasped Sherlock’s shoulders. “Mmmph, like that,” he grunted through his clenched teeth.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of his head, a surprisingly chaste gesture and juxtaposition with what his hand was doing. John ducked his head and smeared kisses across his collarbone and the wave of pleasure grew. He bucked into Sherlock’s hand, unable to control the movement of his hips.

John sucked in a breath. “Can you--?” Even though he had sex with Sherlock before, he felt a little self-conscious asking this. “Can you touch the tip?”

Sherlock ran his thumb over the tip. “Like this.”

“Oh, god, yeah,” John shivered, feeling intense pleasure gather where Sherlock’s thumb was circling, and in his bollocks, which started to pull up. John bit Sherlock’s pale shoulder with a groan, and fucked his hand. The pleasure peaked, and John came hard with a moan into Sherlock’s shoulder. His legs felt wobbly from kneeling, so after Sherlock let go of him, he sat upright against the back of the sofa, legs spread and feet on the floor. He rubbed his face, breathing deeply and shivering as the last sensations of his orgasm pulsed throughout his body. It occurred to him how fast he came, and he started laughing.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John lowered his hands from his face, smiling at him. “I usually last longer than that, that’s all.”

Sherlock looked breathtaking. He was still red from cheeks to chest, sweaty, eyes glossy, and his right hand and abdomen were wet with semen. “Oh,” he said, frowning a little. “I didn’t last much longer. I felt like I couldn’t” His voice sounded slightly raspy from moaning.

John bit his lip, and he was sure that if he hadn’t just come, he would be getting hard again. “I did that to you because I wanted to give you relief as soon as possible. It’s okay, we’ve both waited too long for this, right?”

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes flickering down. “Right,” he said wistfully. Then, he looked down at himself. “Oh god, look at me,” he gasped, half in disgust, and half in what sounded like awe, like he never believed he would be like this.

“Maybe you should wipe off,” John chuckled, “and I need to rinse my mouth out before I can kiss you again.”

“There’s mouthwash in the loo.”

“Let’s go.”

They cleaned up in the loo and decided to talk on Sherlock’s (their) bed. Sherlock got under the covers, even though it was only a quarter to noon. John shrugged to himself and got under the blankets with him, holding out his arms.

Sherlock went into his arms willingly, but shyly, his hands curled over John’s chest. He took a deep breath, which turned into a deep, soft chuckle. “We really didn’t last long, did we?”

“Not really,” John laughed, too. “But none of that rubbish matters. It felt good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock confirmed, smiling bashfully. “I feel like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Does that normally happen after sex?”

“When you’ve waited this long? I think so. I’m glad you liked it. It felt risky just diving in like that--no pun intended--”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, covering his face.

“But it looks like that made you feel more comfortable, hm?” John held his hands and lowered them.

“It did,” he said. “I think I needed to get over the initial apprehension. You really do know me well.”

“I try,” John said honestly, relieved he made the right choice. He would have felt awful if he’d done that and it had been too much for Sherlock to handle. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to do that, and to see you liked that,” he said honestly. “I know no one’s ever seen you like that before.”

His smile dimmed a little, but his eyes were still soft as ever. “And no one else ever will.” His right hand was curled over John’s heart now, and his forefinger was stroking softly. “I’d trust you with anything, John.”

John sighed a little. “I still think you’re too forgiving of me.”

“And I think you’re a moron,” Sherlock mumbled and kissed his chest. “An utter imbecile.”

John’s heart beat beneath his hand. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock tilted his head up and kissed him gently, emitting a soft, rumbling hum.

God, John loved him. Their kisses were now growing slow and lazy, tender and without a purpose other than showing pure affection. John was so happy to be here with him. “I love you,” he whispered against his lips between small pecks, “I never wanna be apart from you.”

He cupped his jaw and looked straight into his eyes. “I’m never going to hurt you again, okay? I want to make you happy,” his voice shook.

Sherlock swallowed hard and shook his head, and they were so close that their noses brushed together. “You do, John, you do.” He kissed his cheek. “It’s still a bit shocking this is happening, because I’ve dreamt of this so much, even though I told myself not to.” He blinked slowly, and placed a deliberate, but soft kiss to the center of his forehead. “Don’t doubt how much I adore you,” he murmured, voice like honey.

His words went straight to John’s heart, and he embraced him. “C’mere,” he said thickly into his hair. “Lemme hold you.”

“John.” Sherlock tangled their legs together and hugged him around his middle. His head was on the same pillow as John’s, and up this close, John could see the small brown dot right above the pupil of his left eye. “You don’t know how much your love means to me.” His voice lowered to a whisper, “I never thought anyone would want to be close to me like this.”

“I’ve always wanted this,” John told him sincerely. “Always.” Heart aching with fondness, he started to stroke through Sherlock’s thick, damp curls.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered shut and he breathed deeply through his nose. “Mmm, I know.”

They fell into silence after that, although John didn’t stop caressing him. It was warm and comfortable in their bed, and soon, John noticed how slow and deep Sherlock’s breathing was turning. He wanted to let Sherlock sleep (it had been an emotionally and physically exhausting morning, after all), but he really didn’t want to fall asleep for several hours and make Mrs. Hudson babysit Rosie for that long without prior notice. Besides, as much as he loved Sherlock, he needed to spend more time with the daughter he almost lost.

“Hey,” John whispered, nudging him awake.

“What?” Sherlock looked at him fuzzily.

“Sorry to ruin the peaceful moment, but I just sort of showed up on Mrs. H’s doorstep with Rosie and came up here, and I should really go get her.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock turned onto his back with a yawn. “We should get dressed first.”

“Probably,” John smirked, “it would be a bit of a shock if I knocked on her door like this.”

Sherlock smiled, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. He sat up and stretched his arms over his head.

It was then that John actually saw his bare back, and his stomach churned. There were scars, as he predicted in the other world. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, John reached out and traced one gently.

Sherlock instantly knew what he was doing. He released a long sigh. “Don’t, John, not now.”

John sat up, too. “I just wish I’d been there to help you,” he said with regret.

Sherlock looked at him. “I never told you about these; how do you know this was from a time we were apart?”

At this point, John was used to evading these questions which were impossible to answer truthfully. “I saw you shirtless around the flat before, you know, your time away. I figured all of this had to have happened then.”

“A sound deduction,” Sherlock said, but his voice was hollow.

John pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “We don’t have to talk about it now, but I want to do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Thank you for the sacrifice you made.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly. “You...I hurt you back then. I don’t--”

“Sherlock,” John held his hand. “Don’t dwell on it, okay? I just needed to tell you that.”

“Okay,” he nodded, squeezing John’s hand. “I’ll tell you about it all one day, I promise.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” John ran his thumb over his knuckles. “We’ll take things one step at a time.”

“Sounds good,” Sherlock said, relieved they were dropping the subject.

They went back into the sitting room where their clothes were spread out on the sofa and floor. John got fully dressed, but Sherlock only wrapped himself in his red dressing gown. His hair was a mess from sex and John’s fingers, and he had a happy, sleepy smile playing at his lips.

John placed a hand on his hip with a smirk. “You have no idea how sexy you are, do you?”

“Well,” Sherlock cleared his throat politely, “it’s come to my attention that people have found me attractive in the past, and I suspected you thought so, too, but it’s nice actually hearing it from you.”

John licked his lips, chucking lowly. “Is it? Then I should tell you more often.” He lifted his free hand and stroked Sherlock’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “You’re breathtaking right now.”

Sherlock blushed, lip quivering against John’s thumb. His dressing gown was open enough for some of his chest to show. John wanted to spread his blush down to his pale chest again, but shook his head.

“If I stare at you any longer, I’ll never go downstairs and get Rosie,” John said, somewhat reluctantly pulling away from him.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck with a lopsided grin, the one that always tugged at John’s heartstrings. “Go get her, John.”

John did, happily taking Rosie into his arms and stuffing her purple cat plushie as much as he could into his jeans pocket. The sparkle that lit up her eyes when she saw him made his chest feel warm.

“You were up there for quite some time,” Mrs. Hudson commented.

“Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat, “Sherlock and I are together now, so.”

The squawk of joy Mrs. Hudson let out startled Rosie.

“What? John, you have to tell me more! I can watch Rosie for the rest of the night; surely you two want some alone time! I remember when I first got together with my husband--”

“We already took care of that,” John said with an awkward cough. “We’re really fine for now, thank you. Besides, I feel like I haven’t been there enough for her,” John shifted and put his forearm under Rosie’s bum and his hand on her back.

“You _will_ tell me what happened,” Mrs. Hudson wagged her finger at him, “but tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” John smiled. “I promise I’ll come downstairs and chat tomorrow.”

John brought Rosie upstairs, kissing her temple.

“Shuh,” Rosie said when she saw Sherlock. “Shuh, shuh-ra.”

“Close enough,” Sherlock smiled, and took her small hand and kissed the top of it. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you.”

“That changes now,” John said. “Hey, um, this is a sudden question,” he laughed a little, “but can we live here now? Can I move back.”

Sherlock released a long sigh. “Oh, John, why are you such an imbecile? Of _course_ you’re living here again.”

If he weren’t holding Rosie, he would have slapped his arm. “You worried me for a second, you wanker!”

“Don’t swear in front of the baby,” Sherlock scolded. “She’s beginning to acquire language.”

“Then you can’t talk about dissecting bodies in front of her,” John countered.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Deal.”

John snorted. “You’re a d--dumb person.”

“You were about to call me a derogatory name referring to genitalia, weren’t you?”

“That’s the most complicated way of saying d-i-c-k I’ve ever heard.”

“You can’t do that once she starts spelling, either.”

“Sherlock, she’s only one!” John laughed. “You’re acting like a mother hen.”

Rosie made a sound, like she knew they were talking about her, but didn’t have the words or comprehension to join in.

“You’re going to learn a lot of interesting words in this flat,” John said to her, walking over to his red armchair and sitting down with her on his lap.

“She’ll receive an excellent array of knowledge in this flat,” Sherlock corrected, sitting down in his chair. He stretched his legs and nudged John’s foot.

John looked down, and started snickering. “Hey, you might want to close your legs if you’re not wearing pants, sweetheart.”

Sherlock scrambled, sitting up straight and crossing his legs, pulling his dressing gown down.

John couldn’t tell if the scandalized expression on his face was from being flustered, or from the term of endearment.

Sherlock got up, stomped to the pile of his discarded clothes, and pulled his pants up under his robe. He stomped back to his chair and sat down, spreading his legs. “There, is that better?” he pouted.

“Hmm, better for Rosie, and worse for me,” John winked.

Sherlock made a disgusted sound and brought his legs up onto his chair, curling into a ball on his side and pulling his robe over himself like a blanket.

John laughed, and turned his attention to Rosie. He played with the ears on her pink bunny onesie, making her giggle. “Want your kitty?” He fished into his pocket and took out her toy, which was hanging half out of his pocket to begin with.

“Ca,” she smiled.

“That’s right, it’s a cat,” John booped her nose with the nose of the stuffed toy.

She erupted into giggles, grabbing the cat from his hand and hugging it.

John was laughing with her, and he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him.

Sherlock was, indeed, watching them, head on the arm of his chair, curled up as tightly as possible to fit into the chair.

“Yeah? What is it?” John asked.

He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t squished into the chair. “Nothing. I’m just happy.”

* * *

John and Rosie moved into 221B as quickly as possible. They made John’s old bedroom her own, and started sharing a bed immediately. It was a bit of a whirlwind when they told everyone they were together (the reactions they received ranged from joy to Lestrade’s “oh god, it’s about fucking time!”), but they were glad they decided to share their news with their friends.

“It’s funny, I never thought I’d have friends to share good news with before I met you,” Sherlock mused.

“You act as if I was Mr. Sociable before you,” John teased.

Things were just...good. Genuinely good, and with no threats looming to take their happiness away. Mary was gone, Moriarty was long gone, and the obstacle of misunderstandings between them disappeared. Sherlock’s parents, absolutely delighted at the idea of their son having a family of his own, readily agreed to babysit Rosie when they were busy with a case that would take several days, and Mrs. Hudson was glad to watch her when they were only gone for the night. It felt like, after years of nothing working out, things fell into place.

In time, Sherlock did tell him about his time away. John didn’t need to fake his reaction; he would always shed tears at the thought of how much Sherlock went through. He listened patiently when Sherlock eventually told him about his childhood, about the friends he never let go. John held him as he cried bitter tears from old wounds, assuring him his pain was real and valid, and shouldn’t be locked away.

“I wish I’d been there for you, to stop you from shutting yourself down,” John told him.

“Me too,” Sherlock sniffed.

“But you’ve opened up to me, and I promise to cherish that and never let you go down that path again.”

To his surprise, Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly, wiping his tears away. “I know, John. I know.”

They still argued at times, but it was about insignificant, domestic rubbish. The animosity that had been there, lingering under the surface since the fall, was gone. As John sat on the sofa one night with Rosie sleeping on his chest and Sherlock sleeping against his shoulder, it occurred to him that this was the happiest period of his life, full stop, and he hoped it never ended. _It won’t_ , thought. They were going to be together, and watch Rosie grow into a beautiful girl, and no one was going to stop them.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he whispered to him.

Sherlock snuffled. “Mmm, love you, too,” he mumbled into John’s T-shirt.

John didn’t know why he was given a second chance, and he never would. He would never speak of his time in the other world, but he always remembered it, and was eternally grateful for whatever reason the universe decided to have mercy on him, of all people.

And sometimes, John had dreams. He dreamt of a version of himself and Sherlock noticeably a few years younger than he and his Sherlock actually were. That version of himself and Sherlock didn’t have a baby, but they were always smiling and embracing in his dreams. They kissed, and they laughed.

John always felt good after he woke up from his dreams because he knew that finally, _finally,_ he made every wrong in their lives right. He was a good father. He made Sherlock Holmes a happy man who received all the love his tender heart deserved.

At last, John was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! I never thought this story would get this long or get so much love, but I thank you so, so much. I'm going to miss writing this, but I think now is a good time to end it.  
> But I just posted a new WIP! It's called [Complete as a Human Being](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521113/chapters/33549612), and the scenario is Irene Adler shows back up after the events of s4 (TFP doesn't exist though), and jealous, broken, repressed John is not pleased one bit. So, if you liked this, I hope you'll check out my new story <3


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